Hold The Dream
Barbara Taylor Bradford

BOOK ONE

I speak the truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare; and I dare a little more, as I grow older.

MONTAIGNE

Chapter One

Emma Harte was almost eighty years old.

She did not look it, for she had always carried her years lightly. Certainly Emma felt like a much younger woman as she sat at her desk in the upstairs parlor of Pennistone Royal on this bright April morning of 1969.

Her posture was erect in the chair, and her alert green eyes, wise and shrewd under the wrinkled lids, missed nothing. The burnished red-gold hair had turned to shining silver long ago, but it was impeccably coiffed in the latest style, and the widow's peak was as dramatic as ever above her oval face. If this was now lined and scored by the years, her excellent bone structure had retained its clarity and her skin held the translucency of her youth. And so, though her great beauty had been blurred by the passage of time, she was still arresting, and her appearance, as always, was stylish.

For the busy working day stretching ahead of her, she had chosen to wear a wool dress of tailored simplicity in the powder-blue shade she so often favored, which was so flattering to her. A frothy white lace collar added just the right touch of softness and femininity at her throat, and there were discreet diamond studs on her ears. Otherwise she wore no jewelry except for a gold watch and her rings.

After her bout with bronchial pneumonia the previous year, she was in blooming health, had no infirmities to speak of, and was filled with the restless vigor and drive that had marked her younger days.

That's my problem, not knowing where to direct all this damned energy, she mused, putting down her pen, leaning back in the chair. She smiled and thought: The devil usually finds work for idle hands, so I'd better come up with a new project soon before I get into mischief. Her smile widened. Most people thought she had more than enough to keep her fully occupied, since she continued to control her vast business enterprises which stretched halfway around the world.

Indeed they did need her constant supervision; yet for the most part they offered her little challenge these days. Emma had always thrived on challenge, and it was this she sorely missed. Playing watchdog was not particularly exciting to her way of thinking. It did not fire her imagination, bring a tingle to her blood, or get her adrenaline flowing in the same way that wheeling and dealing did. Pitting her wits against business adversaries and striving for power and supremacy in the international market place had become such second nature to her over the years that they were now essential to her well-being.

Restlessly she rose, crossed the floor in swift light steps, and opened one of the soaring leaded windows. She .took a deep breath, peered out. The sky was a faultless blue, without a single cloud, and radiant with spring sunshine. New buds, tenderly green, sprouted on the skeletal branches, and under the great oak at the edge of the lawn a mass of daffodils, randomly planted, tossed yellow-bright heads under the fluttering breeze.

"I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils," she recited aloud, then thought: Good heavens, I learned that Wordsworth poem at the village school in Fairley. So long ago, and to think that I've remembered it all these years.

Raising her hand, she closed the window, and the great McGill emerald on the third finger of her left hand flashed as the clear northern light struck the stone. Its brilliance caught her attention. She had worn this ring for forty-four years, ever since that day in May of 1925 when Paul McGill had placed it on her finger. He had thrown away her wedding ring, symbol of her disastrous marriage to Arthur Ainsley, then slipped on the massive square-cut emerald. "We might not have had the benefit of clergy," Paul had said that memorable day, "but as far as I'm concerned, you are my wife. From this day forward until death do us part."

The previous morning their child had been born. Their adored Daisy, conceived in love and raised with love. Her favorite of all her children, just as Paula, Daisy's daughter, was her favorite grandchild, heiress to her enormous retailing empire and half of the colossal McGill fortune which Emma had inherited after Paul's death in 1939. And Paula had given birth to twins four weeks ago, had presented her with her first great-grandchildren, who tomorrow would be christened at the ancient church in Fairley village.

Emma pursed her lips, suddenly wondering if she had made a mistake in acquiescing to this wish of Paula's husband, Jim Fairley. Jim was a traditionalist and thus wanted his children to be christened at the font where all of the Fairleys had been baptized—and all of the Hartes, for that matter, herself included.

Oh well, she thought, I can't very well renege at this late date, and perhaps it is only fitting. She had wreaked her revenge on the Fairleys. The vendetta she had waged against them for most of her life was finally at an end, and the two families had been united through Paula's marriage with James Arthur Fairley, the last of the old line. It was a new beginning.

But when Blackie O'Neill had heard of the choice of church, he had raised a snowy brow and chuckled and made a remark about the cynic turning into a sentimentalist in her old age, an accusation he was frequently leveling at her of late. Maybe Blackie was right in this assumption. On the other hand the East no longer troubled her as it once had. The past had been uried with the dead. Only the future concerned her now. And Paula and Jim and their children were that future.

Emma's thoughts centered on Fairley village as she returned to her desk, put on her glasses, and stared at the memorandum in front of her. It was from her grandson Alexander, who, with her son Kit, ran her mills, and it was' bluntly to the point, in Alexander's inimitable fashion. The Fairley mill was in serious trouble. It had been failing to break even for the longest time and was now deeply in the red. A crucial decision hovered over her head ... to close the mill or keep it running at a considerable loss. Emma, ever the pragmatist, knew deep in her bones that the wisest move would be to close down the Fairley operation, yet she balked at this drastic measure, not wanting to bring hardship to the village of her birth. She had asked Alexander to find an alternative, a workable solution, and hoped he had done so. She would soon know. He was due to arrive for a meeting with her imminently.

One possibility which might enable them to resolve the situation at the Fairley mill had occurred to Emma, but she wanted to give Alexander his head, an opportunity to handle this problem himself. Testing him, she admitted, as I'm constantly testing all of my grandchildren. And why not? That was her prerogative, wasn't it? Everything she owned had been hard-won, built on a life rooted in single-mindedness of purpose, the most grueling work and dogged determination and relentlessness and terrible sacrifice. Nothing had ever been handed to her on a plate. Her mighty empire was entirely of her own making, and since it was hers and hers alone, she could dispose of it as she wished.

And so with calm deliberation and judiciousness and selectivity she had chosen her heirs one year ago, bypassing four of her five children in favor of her grandchildren in the new will she had drawn; yet she continued to scrutinize the third generation through wise old eyes, forever evaluating their. worth, seeking weaknesses in them whilst inwardly praying to find none.

They have lived up to my expectations, she reassured herself, then thought with a swift stab of dismay: No, that's not strictly true. There is one of whom I am not really sure, one whom I don't think I can trust.

Emma unlocked the top drawer of her desk, took out a sheet of paper, and studied the names of her grandchildren, which she had listed only last night when she had experienced her first feelings of uneasiness.-Is there a joker in this pack, as I suspect? she asked herself worriedly, squinting at the names. And if there really is, how on earth will I handle it?

Her eyes remained riveted to one name. She shook her head with sadness, pondering.

Treachery had ceased to surprise Emma long ago, for her natural astuteness and psychological insight had been sharply honed during a long, frequently hard,-and always extraordinary life. In fact relatively few things surprised her anymore, and, with her special brand of cynicism, she had come to expect the worst from people, including family. Yet withal •she had been taken aback last year when she had discovered through Gaye Sloane, her secretary, that her four eldest children were willfully plotting against her. Spurred on by their avariciousness and vaulting ambition, they had endeavored to wrest her empire away from her in the most underhanded way, seriously underestimating her in the process. Her initial 'shock and the pain of betrayal had been swiftly replaced by an anger of icy ferocity, and she had made her moves with speed and consummate skill and resourcefulness, which was her way when facing any opponent. And she had pushed sentiment and emotions aside, had not allowed feelings to obscure intelligence, for it was her superior intelligence which had inevitably saved her in disastrous situations in the past.

If she had outwitted the .inept plotters, had left them floundering stupidly in disarray, she had also finally come to the bitter, and chilling, realization that blood was not thicker than water. It had struck her, and most forcibly, that ties of the blood and of the flesh did not come into play when vast amounts of money and, more importantly, great power were at stake. People thought nothing of killing to attain even the smallest portions of both. Despite her overriding disgust and disillusionment with her children, she had been very sure of their children, their devotion to her. Now one of them was causing her to re-evaluate her judgment and question her trust.

She turned the name over in her mind . . . Perhaps she was wrong; she hoped she xvas wrong. She had nothing to go on really—except gut instinct and her prescience. But, like her intelligence, both.had served her well throughout her life.

Always when she faced this kind of dilemma, Emma's instinctive attitude was to wait—and watch. Once again she decided to play for time. By doing thus she could conceal her real feelings, whilst gambling that things would sort themselves out to her advantage, thereby dispensing with the need for harsh action. But I will dole out the rope, she added inwardly. Experience had taught her that when lots of freely proffered rope fell into unwitting hands, it invariably formed a noose.

Emma considered the manifold possibilities if this should happen, and a hard grimness settled over her face, and her eyes darkened. She did not relish picking up the sword again, to defend herself and her interests, not to mention her other heirs.

History does have a way of repeating itself, she thought wearily, especially in my life. But I refuse to anticipate. That's surely borrowing trouble. Purposefully she put the list back in the drawer, locked it, and pocketed the key.

Emma Harte had the enviable knack of shelving unsolved problems in order to concentrate on priorities, and so she was enabled to subdue the nagging—and disturbing—suspicion that a grandchild of hers was untrustworthy and therefore a
potential adversary. Current business was the immediate imperative, and she gave her attention to her appointments for the
rest of the day, each of which was with three of the six grandchildren who worked for her.

Alexander would come first.

Emma glanced at her watch. He was due to arrive in fifteen minutes, at ten-thirty. He would be on time, if not indeed early. Her lips twitched in amusement. Alexander had become something of a demon about punctuality; he had even chided her last week when she had kept him waiting, and he was forever at odds with his mother, who suffered from a chronic disregard for the clock. Her amused smile fled, was replaced by a cold and disapproving tightness around her mouth as she contemplated her second daughter.

Elizabeth was beginning to push her patience to the limits— galavanting around the world in the most scandalous manner, marrying and divorcing haphazardly and %vith such increasing frequency it was appalling. Her daughter's inconsistency and instability had ceased to baffle her, for she had long understood that Elizabeth had inherited most of her father's worst traits. Arthur Ainsley had been a weak, selfish, and self-indulgent man; these unfortunate flaws were paramount in his daughter, and following his pattern, the beautiful, wild, and willful Elizabeth flouted all the rules and had remained untamed. And dreadfully unhappy, Emma acknowledged to herself. The woman has become a tragic spectacle, to be pitied perhaps rather than condemned.

She wondered where her daughter was at the moment, then instantly dropped the thought. It was of no consequence, she supposed, since they were barely on speaking terms after the matter of the will. Surprisingly even Alexander had been treated to a degree of cold shouldering by his adoring mother because he had been favored in her place. But Elizabeth had not been able to cope with Alexander's cool indifference to her feelings, and her hysterical tantrums and the rivers of tears had abruptly ceased when she realized she was wasting her time. She had capitulated in the face of his aloofness, disapproval, and thinly veiled contempt. Her son's good opinion of her and his love were vital, apparently, and she had made her peace with him, had mended her ways. But not for long, Emma thought acidly. She soon fell back into her bad habits. And it's certainly no thanks to that foolish and skittish woman that Alexander has turned out so well.

Emma experienced a little rush of warmth mingled with gratification as she contemplated her grandson. Alexander had become the man he was because of his strength of character and his integrity. He was solid, hardworking, dependable. If he did not have his cousin Paula's brilliance and icked her unique vision in business, he was nonetheless sound of judgment. His conservative streak was balanced by a degree of flexibility, and he displayed a genuine willingness to weigh the pros and cons of any given situation and, when necessary, to make compromises. Alexander had the ability to keep everything in its proper perspective, and this was reassuring to Emma, who was a born realist herself.

This past year Alexander had proved himself deserving of her faith in him, and she had no regrets about making him the chief heir to Harte Enterprises by leaving him fifty-two percent of her shares in this privately held company. Whilst he continued to supervise the mills, she deemed it essential foV him to have a true understanding of every aspect of the holding corporation, and she had been training him assiduously, preparing him for the day when he took over the reins from her.

Harte Enterprises controlled her woolen mills, clothing factories, real estate, the General Retail Trading Company, and the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company, and it was worth many millions of pounds. She had long recognized that Alexander might never increase its worth by much because of his tendency to be cautious, but for the same reason neither would he ruin it through rash decisions and reckless speculation. He would keep it on the steady course she had so carefully charted, following-the guidelines and principles she had set down years ago. This was the way she wanted it, had planned it in fact.

Emma drew her appointment book toward her and checked the time of her lunch with Emily, Alexander's sister.

Emily was due to arrive at one o'clock.

When she had phoned earlier in the week, Emily had sounded somewhat enigmatic when she had said she had a serious problem to discuss. There was no mystery as far as Emma was concerned. She knew what Emily's problem was, had known about it for a long time. She was only surprised that her granddaughter had not asked to discuss it before now. She lifted her head and stared into space reflectively, turning the matter over in her mind, and then she frowned. Two weeks ago she had come to a decision about Emily, and she was convinced it was the right one. But would Emily agree? Yes, she answered herself. The girl will see the sense in it, I'm positive of that. Emma brought her eyes back to the open page of the diary. .

Paula would stop by at the end of the afternoon.

She and Paula were to discuss the Cross project. Now if that is skillfully handled by Paula and she brings the negotiations to a favorable conclusion, then I'll have that challenge I'm looking for, Emma thought. Her mouth settled into its familiar resolute lines as she turned her attention to the balance sheets of the Aire Communications Company, owned by the Crosses. The figures were disastrous—and damning. But its financial problems aside, the company was weighted down with serious afflictions of such enormity that they boggled the mind. According to Paula, these could be surmounted and solved, and she had evolved a plan so simple yet so masterly in its premise that Emma had been both intrigued and impressed.

"Let's buy the company, Grandy," Paula had said to her a few weeks ago. "I realize Aire looks like a catastrophe, and actually it is, but only because of its bad management and its recent structure. It's a hodgepodge. Too diversified. And it as too many divisions. Those that make a good profit can never get properly ahead and really flourish because they're burdened down by the divisions which are in the red and which they have to support." Paula had then walked her through the plan, step by step, and Emma had instantly understood how Aire Communications could be turned around and in no time at all. She had instructed her granddaughter to start negotiating immediately.

How she would love to get her hands on that little enterprise. And perhaps she would and very soon too, if her reading of the situation was as accurate as she thought. Emma was convinced that no one was better equipped to deal with John Cross and his son, Sebastian, than Paula, who had developed into a tough and shrewd negotiator. She no longer equivocated when Emma hurled -her into touchy business situations that required nimble thinking and business acumen, which she possessed in good measure. And of late her self-confidence had grown.

Emma glanced at her watch again, then curbed the impulse to telephone Paula at the store in Leeds, to give her a few last-minute tips about John Cross and how to deal with him effectively. Paula had proved she had come into her own, and Emma did not want her to think she was forever -breathing down her neck.

The telephone rang. Emma reached for it. "Hello?"

"It's me, Aunt Emma. Shane. How are you?"

"Why Shane, how lovely to hear your voice. And I'm fine, thanks. You sound pretty good yourself. I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, at the christening." As she spoke, she took off her glasses and laid them on the desk, relaxed in the chair.

"I was hoping to see you before then, Aunt Emma. How would you like to go out on the town tonight with two fun-loving bachelors?"

Emma laughed gaily. "And who's the other fun-loving bachelor?"

"Grandfather, of course, who else?"

"Fun-loving! He's getting to be an old stick-in-the-mud, if you ask me."

"I wouldn't be saying that, mavourneen," Blackie boomed into the phone, having taken it away from his grandson. "I bet I could still give you a run for your money, if I got half the chance."

"I'm sure you could, darling." Emma smiled into the phone, her heart warming to him. "However, I'm afraid you won't get that chance tonight. I can't accept your invitation, Blackie dear. Some of the family are arriving later, and I ought to be here."

"No," Blackie interjected peremptorily, "you can see them tomorrow. Ah now, don't be refusin' me, darlin'," he cajoled. "Apart from wanting the pleasure of your lovely company, I need your advice on an important business matter."

"Oh." Emma was mildly taken aback by this statement. Blackie had retired and left the running of his companies to his son Bryan and to Shane. Not unnaturally her curiosity was piqued, and she said, "What kind of business?"

"I don't, want to be discussing it on the telephone, Emma," Blackie said in a softly chiding tone. "It's not something that's so cut and dried it can be settled in the matter of a few minutes. .We have to be going back and forth, you know,

dissecting it a bit, and I think we should be doing it over a nice drop of Irish and a fine meal."

Emma laughed under her breath, wondering how important this so-called business matter really was, but found herself conceding, "I suppose I can let them fend for themselves. To tell you the truth, I wasn't much looking forward to tonight. Even though Daisy and David will be here, the prospect of a family gathering isn't particularly exciting. So I accept. And where are you and your dashing grandson planning to take me? Out on the town in Leeds isn't too exciting."

Laughingly Blackie concurred and said, "But don't worry, we'll cook up something, and I promise you won't be bored."

"What time then?"

"Shane will pick you up around six. Is that all right, me darlin' girl?"

"It's perfect."

"Good. Good. Until later then. Oh and Emma?"

"Yes, Blackie?"

"Have you given any more thought to me little proposition?"

"Yes, and I have serious doubts about it working."

"Oh, so you're still me Doubting Emma after all these years, 1 can see. Well, we'll discuss that tonight, too, and maybe I can be convincing you yet."

"Perhaps," she murmured softly as he hung up.

Emma sat back, contemplating Blackie O'Neill. Doubting Emma. A faint smile flickered in her eyes. When had he first called her that? Was it 1904 or 1905? She was no longer sure, but it had been thereabouts, and Blackie had been her dearest, closest friend for all those sixty-five years. For a whole lifetime. Always there when she needed him, loyal, devoted, supportive, and loving. They had been through most of life's exigencies together, had shared each other's terrible losses and defeats, pain and anguish; had celebrated each other's triumphs and joys. Of their contemporaries there were only the two of them left, and they were closer than ever, inseparable really. She did not know what she would do if anything happened to him. She resolutely squashed this unacceptable thought before it took hold. Blackie was an old war horse, just as she herself was an old war horse, and even though he was eighty-three there was a great deal of surging life and vitality left in him. But no one lasts indefinitely, she thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiousness whilst acknowledging the inevitable. At their grand ages mortality was a given, one which could not be argued with, and impending death was an old if unwelcome familiar.

There was a knock on the door.

Emma glanced at it, adopted her normal expression of cool inscrutability, and called, "Come in."

The door swung open and Alexander entered. He was tall, lean, and trim in build, with his mother's dark good looks, her large, light blue eyes; but his somewhat serious, saturnine face made him appear older than his twenty-five years, gave him a dignified air. He wore a well-cut dark gray worsted suit, a white shirt, and a burgundy silk tie—all of which reflected and reinforced his rather sober personality.

"Good morning, Grandmother," he said, striding toward her. Reaching the desk, he added, "I must say, you're looking pretty nifty today."

"Morning, Alexander, and thank you for the compliment. Mind you, flattery's not going to get you anywhere with me," she responded crisply. Nonetheless her eyes danced and she regarded her grandson fondly.

Alexander kissed her on the cheek, seated himself opposite, and protested, "I'm not trying to flatter you, Grandy, honestly I'm not. You do look absolutely spiffing. That color really suits you, and the dress is very chic.'

Emma nodded impatiently, waved her hand in airy dismissal, and fixed her grandson with a keen and penetrating stare. "What have you come up with?"

"The only solution to the Fairley problem," Alexander began, understanding she wanted to curtail the small talk and plunge into business. His grandmother loathed procrastination, unless it suited her own ends; then she could elevate procrastination to an art. But she scarcely tolerated it in others, so he rushed on, 'We have to change our product. By that I mean we have to stop manufacturing the expensive woolens and worsted cloths that hardly anybody is buying, and start weaving blends. Man-made fibers, such as nylon and polyester, blended with wool. Those are our best bets."

"And you think this move will get us out of the red and into the black?" Emma asked, her stare intensifying.

"Yes, I do, Grandy," he replied, sounding sure of himself. "One of our chief problems at Fairley has been trying to compete with the man-made fiber goods on the market today. Nobody wants pure wool anymore, except the Savile Row boys, and they're not a big enough market for the Fairley output. Look, either we produce the blends or shut up shop— which you don't want to do. It's as simple as that."

"Can we make the changeover easily?"

Alexander nodded emphatically. "We can. By manufacturing cheaper goods we can capture the more popular-priced markets here and abroad and do volume sales. Of course, it is a question of sales and getting a real foothold in those new markets. But I'm sure we can pull it off." He reached into his inside breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper. "I've analyzed every aspect of the plan, and I'm certain I've not overlooked one thing. Here it is."

Emma took it from him, reached for her glasses, studied the closely typed sheet. She recognized immediately that he had done his homework with his usual diligence. He had refined the idea she herself had toyed with, although she had no intention of revealing this, not wishing to undermine him or diminish his efforts. She looked up, removed her spectacles, and gave him the benefit of^a warm congratulatory smile.

"Well done, Sandy!" she exclaimed, reverting to the affectionate diminutive of his childhood. "You've put a lot of sound thinking into this, and I'm delighted, really delighted."

"That's a relief," he said, a smile breaking through. Reserved of nature though he was, Alexander was always completely relaxed and outgoing with Emma, who was the one person he truly loved, and now he confessed, "I've really bashed my brains out on this one, Grandy, played around with all manner of convoluted ideas, I don't mind telling you. Still, I kept coming back to my original plan for creating the new blends." He leaned closer to the desk and gave her one of her own penetrating stares. "But knowing you, I have a feeling you'd already thought of the solution before you threw the problem at me.'

Emma was tickled at his perceptiveness, but she stifled the laugh that bubbled in her throat. She looked into his candid blue eyes and slowly shook her head. "No, I didn't," she lied: Then, observing his disbelief, she added, "But I suppose I would have. Eventually."

"You're damned right you would," he acknowledged. He shifted slightly in the chair and crossed his legs, wondering how to break the bit of bad news to her. He decided to jump in with both feet. "There is one other thing, though, Grandmother." He hesitated, worry suddenly clouding his face.

"I'm afraid we'll have to cut down on our running costs at the mill. Really tighten our belts out there at Fairley, if we want to operate more efficiently—and profitably. I hate to tell you this, but a number of men will have to be laid off." There was a slight pause, before he finished gloomily, "Permanently laid off."

Emma's face tightened in aggravation. "Oh dear." She nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself. "Well, I sort of expected that, Alexander. If you have to do it, you have to do it. I presume you'll be letting the older men go, those who are near retirement age?" she asked, one brow lifting questioningly.

"Yes. I think that's the fairest thing."

"See to it that they get a special bonus, severance pay, whatever you want to call it. And naturally their pensions will become effective immediately. No penny-pinching and waiting it out until they actually reach retirement age. I won't have any of that nonsense, Sandy."

"Yes, of course. I second-guessed you on that one. I'm preparing a list of names and details of our financial obligations to the men. I'll get it to you next week, if that's all right with you." He sat back, waiting.

Emma made no response. She pushed herself up and walked slowly to the oriel window, where she stood looking down into the -magnificent gardens of Pennistone Royal. Concern edged onto her wrinkled face as she ruminated on the mill at Fairley. Her life had been bound up with it in so many different ways. Her.father had worked there, and her brother, Frank, when he was only a small boy and should have been at school. Frank had been a bobbin ligger, slaving from early morning until nightfall, hardly able to drag his weary little legs home at the end of the long day, sickly pale from exhaustion and a lack of fresh air and sunshine.

Adam Fairley, Jim's great-grandfather and the Squire of Fairley, had been the owner of the mill then. How she had hated him as a girl—for the best part of her life, really. With the wisdom of great age, she knew Adam had not been the tyrant she had believed him to be. But he had been negligent, and that in itself was a crime in her eyes. His monumental negligence and his selfish preoccupation with his personal problems and his all-consuming love for Olivia Wainright had caused grievous trouble for others less fortunate. Yes, Adam Fairley had been guilty of abdicating his duties in the most careless and callous fashion and without so much as a glance at those poor souls who toiled in his mills: The workers who made his cushioned life of ease and privilege possible, who were dependent on him, and were, in a very real sense, his responsibility. Half a century ago, she commented silently. I may understand something of the man now, but I'll never forget what he did. Never.

She glanced down at her small but strong hands, soft and well cared for, the nails manicured to expensive perfection. But once those hands had been red and chapped and sore from scrubbing and polishing and washing and cooking for the Fairleys, when she had been bound in service to them as a child. Lifting one hand, she touched her face and remembered with stunning clarity Murgatroyd's sharp blows on her cheek. The detestable Murgatroyd, Adam Fairley's butler, who had been permitted by the squire to rule that pernicious and secretive doomed house with a cruelty that bordered on savagery. Despite his harshness and his unremitting persecution of her, Murgatroyd had never frightened her. It was that monstrous house which had filled her with a nameless terror and from which she had wanted always to flee.

Then, one day, she had owned that great mausoleum of a place—Fairley's Folly, the villagers had called it—and she had known at once that she would never live in it, would never play the role of the grand lady of the manor. And with a flash of sudden and intense vision she had 'understood exactly what she must do. She must obliterate it from the face of the earth as if it had never existed. And so she had torn it down, brick by brick by brick, until not a trace of it was left,-and she could still recall to this very day the grim satisfaction she had experienced when she had finally razed it to the ground.

Now, across the span of four decades, she heard an echo of her own voice saying to Blackie, "And destroy this garden. Demolish it completely. I don't want a rosebud, one single leaf left growing." Blackie had done exactly as she had instructed, uprooting that walled rose garden where Edwin Fairley had so inhumanly and shamefully repudiated her and their child, which she had been carrying. Miraculously, in the space of a few hours, the garden, too, had disappeared as if it had never been there at all, and only then had she felt free of the Fairleys at last.

At this time in her life, Emma had acquired the mill. She had done her utmost to give the men proper living wages and overtime and all manner of fringe benefits, and she had kept the village going for years, often at great financial cost to herself. The workers were part of her in a way, for it was from their class that she herself came, and they held a favored and unique place in her affections. The thought of letting a single one of them go distressed her, yet she had no choice, it seemed. Better surely to operate at half her work -capacity and keep the mill rolling than to close it down completely.

Half turning she said, "By the way, Alexander, have you discussed any of this with Kit?"

"Uncle Kit," Alexander exclaimed, his startled tone reflecting the expression flicking onto his face. "No, I haven't," he admitted. "For one thing, he hasn't been around. And for another, he doesn't seem interested in any of the mills, Fairley least of all. He hasn't appeared to give a'damn since you dumped him out of your will."

"That's a crude way of putting it, I must say!" Emma snapped and returned to her desk with a show of briskness. "I didn't dump him, as you call it. I passed him over. For his daughter, remember. As I did your mother for you and Emily, and your Uncle Robin for Jonathan. And you know the reasons why, so I won't bother elucidating on them again. Also let's not forget that my will doesn't come into effect until I die. Which won't be for a long time if I have anything to do with it."

"Or me either," Alexander cried swiftly, as always dismayed by her talk of dying.

Emma smiled at him, fully aware of his devotion to her, his genuine concern for her well-being. She continued in that businesslike tone, "Well, so much for Kit. Afmmm, Of course, I realized he was being a bit derelict in his duties. On the other hand, 1 did think he made an occasional visit, if only for appearances' sake."

"Oh yes, he does do that. But he's so morose and uncommunicative he might as well not-be there," Alexander explained, adding as an afterthought, "I can't begin to guess what he does with his time these days."

"Not much, if I know my eldest son. He never was blessed with much imagination," Emma shot back sardonically, the suggestion of a disdainful smirk playing on her mouth. She made a mental note to talk to Kit's daughter, Sarah, about her father's present mood. Morose indeed, Emma thought, with disgust. He brought his troubles on entirely by himself. No, not true. Robin gave him a helping hand, and Elizabeth and Edwina, his cohorts in the plot against me. Aware that Alexander was waiting expectantly, Emma finished, "Anyway, since Kit's not around, he's not going to hamper you—as he has so often in the past. Your way is clear. Put this plan into operation immediately. You have my blessing."

'Thanks, Grandy." He leaned forward, said with earnestness, "We arc doing the right thing."

"Yes, I know that."

"And don't worry about the men who are to be retired. They will be all right, really they will."

She glanced at him quickly, her eyes narrowed under the hooded lids. She thought: I am so glad it's not Alexander whom I suspect of treachery and duplicity. That I could not bear. It would kill me. She said, "It pleases me that you've always been so involved with the Fairley mill and on such a personal basis, Sandy. You care, and that's important to me. And I appreciate your understanding ... I mean of my involvement with that particular mill." She smiled wryly and shook her head. "The past, you know, is always with us, always reaching out to claim part of us, and I learned a very long time ago that we cannot escape it."

"Yes," he said laconically, but the look in his eyes expressed so much more.

Emma said, "I've decided to go to the Fairley mill next week. I'll be the one to explain the changes we're going to make. Tell them about the retirements myself, in my own words. It's only proper."

"Yes, it is, Grandy. And they'll be thrilled to see you. They all worship you, but then you know that."

"Humph!" she snorted. "Don't be so foolish, Alexander. And don t exaggerate. You know I can't abide exaggeration."

Alexander swallowed a smile, remained silent, watching her closely as she sorted through some of the papers on the desk, her head bent. She had spoken swiftly, crossly even, but there had been a curious gruffness in her voice, and he knew that she had been touched by his words. He was amused by her mild chastisement. It was a hoot. Her whole life had been an extraordinary exaggeration, for God's sake. Why, she was larger than life.

"Are you still here?" Emma said, glancing up, frowning and feigning annoyance. "I thought you'd be halfway to the office by now, with all you've got to do today. Get along with you!"

Alexander laughed, jumped up, and went around the desk. He hugged her to him and kissed the crown of her silvery head. "There's nobody like you in this entire world, Emma Harte," he said gently. "Nobody like you at all."

Chapter Two

"Nobody in this world but Emma Harte would have come up with such a preposterous proposition," Sebastian Cross cried indignantly, glaring, his face turning choleric.

"She didn't come up with it, I did," Paula replied in her coldest voice, returning his angry look with a steady unblinking gaze.

"Tommyrot! It's your grandmother talking, not you!"

Paula felt herself stiffening in the chair, and she suppressed the swift denial that sprang to her lips. Self-control was essential in all business dealings and particularly with this odious man. She would not permit him to put her down, nor bait her with his inference that her grandmother was manipulating this negotiation from afar.

"Think what you will," she said after a slight pause, "but regardless of whomever formulated the deal, that's it, as I've outlined it. It's a take it or leave it situation."

"Then we'll leave it, thank you very much," Sebastian shot back, filled with rancorous hatred for her, for her strange yet compelling beauty, and her money, and her power. His dark eyes blazed as he added, "Who the hell needs you or your grandmother."

"Now, now, Sebastian, let's not be too hasty," John Cross said soothingly. "And please, do calm down." He threw his son a cautionary look, then turned to Paula, his whole manner unexpectedly conciliatory. "You must make allowances for my son. Naturally he's rather upset. After all, your proposal came as something of a shock to him. He is very committed to Aire Communications, as I have always been, and he has no desire to leave the company. Neither do I. In short, we both expect, indeed fully intend, to continue in our present positions. I as chairman of the board, and Sebastian as managing director. Harte Enterprises would have to agree to that."

"I don't believe that is possible, Mr. Cross," Paula said.

"Forget it, Dad," Sebastian almost shouted, "we'll go elsewhere for the money."

"You've nowhere else to go," Paula could not help retorting icily, reaching for her briefcase on the conference room table. She stood up, announced with finality, "Since we seem to have reached an impasse, there's obviously nothing more to say. I think I'd better leave."

John Cross sprang to his feet, took her arm. "Please," he said quietly, "please sit down. Let's talk a little more about this."

Paula hesitated, staring at him. Throughout their relatively short meeting, whilst his son had blustered and snarled, John Cross had adopted a stance of inflexibility, displayed a quiet but firm resoluteness to make the deal on his terms, despite their original understanding. Now, for the first time, she detected a sign of wavering on his part. And whether he was aware of it or not, the preceding months of tension and anxiety had taken their toll. The troubles of his foundering company were much in evidence, clearly imprinted on his gaunt and weary' face, and there was a quiet desperation behind the bloodshot eyes which held a hint of,new panic. He knows I'm right about everything, she thought, carefully assessing him yet again, but he just won't admit it. The fool. She instantly corrected herself. The man standing before her had built up Aire Communications from nothing, so she could hardly characterize him as a fool. Misguided, yes—and regrettably he suffered from the serious malady of paternal blindness. He had long invested his son with qualities Sebastian did not possess nor was ever likely to possess, and therein lay his downfall.

"All right," she said at last, seating herself tentatively on the edge of the chair. "I'll stay for a few minutes to hear what you have to say. But very frankly, I meant it when I said we'd reached an impasse."

"That's not strictly true in my opinion," he responded, smiling faintly, and his relief at her continuing presence in his boardroom was barely concealed as he .took a cigarette and lit it. "Your proposition is a bit preposterous, you know. We want new financing. We don't want to be taken over and thrown out of our own company. No, no, that's not what we had in mind when we came to you," he finished, shaking his head several times for added emphasis.

Paula gazed at him in amazement. She gave him a curious smile. "You've just pin-pointed the crux of the matter. You came to us, remember. We didn't seek you out. And you certainly knew enough about Harte Enterprises and how we operate, to' understand that we never invest in companies that are in trouble. We take those over, reorganize them, and put them under new management. Our management. In other words, we get them running smoothly, efficiently, and on a profitable basis. We're not interested in financing other people's continuing disasters. It doesn't pay."

John Cross winced at this unmistakable thrust, but resisted the parry. Instead he said, "Quite so, quite so. I've been thinking '. . . Maybe we can arrive at a workable compromise—"

"Dad! Don't!" Sebastian exploded irately, moving violently in his chair.

His father held up one hand and frowned at him. "Hear me out, Sebastian. Now, Paula, here's what I think we might do, how we might make a deal after all. Harte Enterprises could buy fifty-two percent of Aire Communications' shares. That gives you the control you insist you must have. You put in your management, reorganize as you wish, but you must let us stay with—"

"Dad! What are you saying? Are you crazy?" Sebastian bellowed, his flushed face darkening considerably. "Where would that leave us? I'll tell you where. Out in the bloody cold, for Christ's sake."

"Sebastian! Please," John Cross shouted back, finally losing his composure, his exasperation running high. "Let me finish for once in my life."

"Just a minute, Mr. Cross," Paula cut in rapidly, her irritation echoing in her voice. "Before you go any further, I must point out, yet again, that we wouldn't be interested. It must be a full buy out. One hundred percent or nothing. And I told you this right from the—"

"That's the old monster talking again. Dad," Sebastian interrupted derisively, his mouth contorted into an ugly line.

"Emma Harte! Jesus Christ, the only heart she's got is in her name. Don't deal with them. Dad. They're vultures, both of them, and this one learned well at the knee of the master, that's patently bloody obvious. She wants to swallow us up in the same way her grandmother has swallowed up companies over the years. I told you, we don't need them."

Paula chose to ignore this unruly and vindictive outburst, deeming it unworthy of a response. She focused all of her attention on John Cross. She was appalled at his deviousness and enraged, but controlling herself, she said as evenly as possible, "I started to say that I quite clearly recall.mentioning the full buy out to you, Mr. Cross, long before today's meeting. I find it hard to believe you've forgotten the protracted conversations we've had about that very matter." She gave him a hard stare, wondering if he thought she was stupid.

John Cross colored under her sharp scrutiny. He remembered her initial statements only too well. -But he had hoped to get Harte Enterprises interested in the company, whet Emma Harte's appetite, then structure the deal to suit himself. He.had been elated when he had realized it was Paula who would do the negotiating. He had believed he could manipulate her and the situation to his advantage. His plan had somehow misfired. Maybe Sebastian was right. Yes, Emma Harte was undoubtedly working behind the scenes; all of this had her unmistakable stamp to it. An unreasonable anger surged through him, and he exclaimed heatedly, "Look here, you're not being Fair."

"Fair," Paula repeated. She smiled thinly, added in a clipped tone, "The issues of fair or unfair just won't play in this instance." She held him with her startlingly blue eyes. ' "I'm surprised to hear you use that word. I told you at the outset of today's meeting that Harte Enterprises is prepared to pay you two million pounds for Aire Communications. That's more than fair. It s downright generous. Your company is in an unholy mess. It could go belly-up at any moment." She shrugged. "Well, I suppose that's your affair, Mr. Cross, not mine." She leaned forward, grasped the handle of her briefcase. "We seem to have nothing further to say to each other."

The senior Cross said, "If, and I am saying if, we do decide to accept your offer, can my son and I remain with the company?"

She shook her head.

John Cross thought rapidly, came to an unpalatable but necessary decision. "I would be willing to step aside. After all, I am near retirement age." He stubbed out his cigarette, fixed his pale eyes on her. "However," he went on firmly, "you must reconsider your decision regarding Sebastian. No one knows this company like my son. Why, he would be invaluable to you. I must insist that he be appointed to the new board of directors and that he be given a contract for five years as special consultant. I would have to have your guarantee on that and in writing before we can proceed any further."

"No," she said. "There is no place in Aire Communications for your son if we take the company over."

The older man was silent.

Sebastian looked pointedly at his father, his expression at once both baleful and condemning. John Cross dropped his eyes, unable to meet that accusatory gaze, toyed with his gold pen, said nothing at all. Sebastian leaped up angrily, seething, and strode across the boardroom. He stood looking out the window, his body rigid, and he cursed Paula Fairley under his breath.

Paula's glance followed Sebastian. She felt the malignancy and alertness in him, but intuitively so, for she could not see his face. It was turned into the shadows cast by the window and the buildings outside. Involuntarily she shivered and brought her eyes back to his father. They regarded each other alertly, each wondering which of them would make the next move. Neither did.

Paula saw a thin, gray-haired man in his early sixties, a self-made man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, and who in the process had acquired a distinguished air and a degree of superficial polish. He was also a frightened man. His company was sinking like a torpedoed battleship with a gaping hole in its bow, yet seemingly he was prepared to spurn the life belt she had thrown him because of his love for his son. The son who had so badly mismanaged Aire Communications he had brought it to its present weakened and crippled state. She noticed a muscle twitching in the elder Cross's face and glanced away.

John Cross, for his part, sat facing a young woman of great elegance in her grooming and dress. She wore a magenta wool suit, magnificently cut -and tailored, obviously a pricey piece of haute couture, with a man-tailored shirt of white silk.

There was an absence of jewelry, except for a simple watch and a plain gold wedding band. He knew that Paula McGill Amory Fairley was only in her mid-twenties, yet she gave the impression of being so much older with her inbred caution, her cool authoritative manner. She reminded him of her famous grandmother, even though her coloring was so different. The glossy black hair, cut in a straight bob that grazed "her jawline, the blue eyes flecked with violet, and the ivory complexion were unquestionably striking; but whereas Emma's fabled russet-golden tints had always suggested softness and beguiling femininity, Paula's beauty was .somewhat austere, at least to suit his taste in women..Neither were her features quite as perfect as Emma's had once been. Still they did share the same aura of presence, and she had apparently inherited the old lady's steely toughness as well as that uncommon widow's peak, those sharp eyes that penetrated with a keen intelligence. His heart sank as he continued to study that palely beautiful but obdurate face.

He would never ivin with her. As this unpleasant realization sank in he did another volte-face, made yet another decision, and this one was final. He would seek financing from another source and insist that the deal include Sebastian. He must ensure his boy's future with the company—one which had been built up expressly for him. That was the only thing he could do, the right and proper thing to do. Yes, he must protect his son above all else—otherwise what had his life been about?

John Cross was the one who broke the prolonged silence. "We are deadlocked, Paula. I have to pass." He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, then let them fall onto the conference table limply. 'Thank you for your time. And please tell your grandmother that her terms are too harsh for my palate."

Paula laughed softly as they both rose. "They're my terms, Mr. Cross, but I won't belabor the point." Being a courteous young woman she thrust out her hand. "I wish you lots of luck," she said with studied politeness.

"Thank you," he said, his voice equally as civil as hers but not quite as steady. "Let me escort you to the lift."

As they passed the window, Paula said, "Goodbye, Sebastian."

He swiveled his dark head, nodded curtly, and she was so startled by the naked hatred etched on his cold and bitter face she hardly heard his muttered response. She had recognized a most dangerous enemy.

Chapter Three

Paula was blazing mad.

Walking rapidly down the Headrow, one of the main thoroughfares in Leeds, she soon put distance,between herself and the Aire Communications building. Her mind was racing. Although she had felt the sharp thrust of Sebastian Cross's vindictive and combative personality, had readily acknowledged that he detested her and had become her arch enemy, her thoughts now centered on his father and with good reason. Having more or less agreed to her terms right from the start, John Cross had ultimately reneged and, moreover, in the most treacherous and despicable way.

It did not require much analysis on her part to understand why he had done so. It was apparent that he did not want to lose face in front of his domineering son, whose presence had unnerved him, made him defensive and, very possibly, more reckless than he had ever been in his entire life. Yet surely his honor and integrity were important to him too, took precedence over everything else. And what about retaining his son's respect? She laughed hollowly at herself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. A young'man of Sebastian's perfidious nature had never made the acquaintance of those particular qualities. During the meeting, when she had understood that John Cross was not to be trusted, she had been momentarily astonished. He enjoyed a good reputation in Yorkshire's business community, had always'been considered honorable if not necessarily the wisest of men. That he would go back on his word was inconceivable to her.

Her pace accelerated, and so did her anger, as she recalled the energy and thought and time she had expended on Aire Communications. Her grandmother was going to be as infuriated as she was. Emma Harte would not tolerate being played for a fool; neither could she abide anyone who did not deal from a straight deck. Grandy would handle the situation in one of two ways. She would either shrug disdainfully and turn away in disgust, or she would treat Mr. Cross to a tongue lashing the likes of which he had never heard before. Her grandmother had an intractable sense of honor, never went back on her handshake or her word, both of which were as good as a written contract, as the whole world knew.

The thought of Emma Harte putting the duplicitous John Cross firmly in his place brought a flicker of a smile to Paula's violet-blue eyes. He deserved that if nothing else. But in reality he was facing much worse than Emma's acid tongue and her virulent condemnation. He was looking disaster right in the eye. Bankruptcy. Total ruin. Obliteration. She knew he was convinced that he could easily find another conglomerate or company to refinance Aire. She also knew he was absolutely wrong in this foolish belief. She had her ear to the ground, and the word was out. Nobody wanted to touch Aire Communications. Not even those ruthless and rapacious asset strippers who bought companies, plundered them, and then tossed to one side the empty shells which were left.

It suddenly occurred to Paula, as she cut down Albion Street, that, unbelievable though it was, John Cross had no real conception of what was about to happen to him or his company. She thought then of those he would take down with him and of the many employees at Aire who would be thrown out of work. We could have saved him, more importantly saved them, she muttered under her breath. The man is unconscionable. Ever since she could remember, her grandmother had instilled a sense of responsibility in her, and this was one of the mandatory rules in Emma's special code of ethics.

"Great wealth and power bring enormous responsibilities, and don't you ever forget that," Grandy had told her time and time again. "We must always look after those who work for us, and with us, because they help to make all this possible. And they rely on us, just as we rely on them in other ways," she had constantly pointed out. Paula was well aware that there were those magnates and industrialists who were jealous of Emma Harte, and who, as adversaries, misguidedly saw her as a hard, ruthless, driven, and power-hungry woman. Yet even they did not have the temerity to deny that she was eminently fair. That was something every Harte employee knew from first-hand experience—hence their extraordinary loyalty and devotion to her grandmother and their love for her.

Paula stopped abruptly and took several deep breaths. She must get rid of the anger boiling inside her. It was exhausting, took too much of her precious energy—energy which could be directed elsewhere and to much better purpose. And besides, rage blocked reasonable and intelligent thought. She started to walk again, but now her step was slower and more regulated, and by the time she reached Commercial Street she had managed to calm herself considerably. She dawdled a little bit, stopping to glance in shop windows until finally she was drawing to a standstill in front of E. Harte, her grandmother's huge department store at the end of the street. She smiled at the uniformed doorman whom she had known since childhood. "Hello, Alfred," she said, smiling.

'"Ello, Miss Paula," he responded with a benevolent grin, touching his cap. "It's a right beautiful day. Yes, luvely, it is that, Miss Paula. Let's 'ope t' weather 'olds til termorrer, for yer bairns' baptisms."

"Yes, let's hope so, Alfred."

He grinned again and pushed open the door for her. She thanked him, hurried through the perfume department and . took the lift to her office on the fourth floor. Her secretary, Agnes, looked up as she walked in and exclaimed with a small frown, "Oh dear, Mrs. Fairley, you've just missed Mr. O'Neill. Shane O'Neill, that is, and only by a few minutes too. What a shame. He waited for quite a while, then had to rush off to an appointment."

"Oh." Paula stopped dead in her tracks, taken aback, but she recovered herself and asked quickly, "Did he say why he dropped in? Or leave a message?"

"I gathered he was passing the store and decided to say hello on the spur of the moment. No message though, other than to tell you he would be coming to the christening."

"I see. Anything else, Agnes?"

"Mr. Fairley phoned from London. You can't call him back—he was on his way to a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. He'll be arriving on schedule at six with your parents. The other messages are on your desk. Nothing vital." Agnes hesitated, then asked, "How did your meeting go at Aire?"

Paula made a sour face. "Not good, Agnes. In fact I'd venture to say that it went extremely badly."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Fairley. I know the amount of work you put in on those dreadful balance sheets and then the-hours you devoted to the contracts." Agnes Fuller, prematurely gray at thirty-eight, plain of feature and with a severe expression that actually betrayed the kindest of hearts, had worked her way up through the ranks of the Leeds store. She had been flattered yet apprehensive when Paula had promoted her to private secretary. After all, Paula was the heiress apparent, and Emma Harte's favorite; also there were those in the store who thought she was cold, remote, unyielding, and something of a snob who lacked Emma's extraordinary common touch. But Agnes had soon discovered that Paula had none of the characteristics so unkindly attributed to her by detractors. She was reserved of nature—even a little shy— cautious and prudent, and a veritable work horse, and these traits had very simply been misconstrued. Over the past three years Agnes had come to love the younger woman, was admiring of her, and considered her to be a brilliant executive who was a warm and caring person and a considerate employer.

As she peered at her young boss through her bifocals, Agnes noticed that Paula was paler than usual and drawn. She gave her a look of sympathy mingled with regret. "It's all very annoying," she clucked in commiseration, shaking her head. "And I hope you're not going to let it bother you, particularly this weekend."

"No, I won't, I promise you that," Paula reassured. "As my grandmother always says, you win a few, lose a few. We lost this one—" She did not finish, and a reflective expression settled on her face. "But, come to think of it, perhaps that's just as well." There was a thoughtful pause before she finished. "Excuse me, Agnes, I'll see you shortly."

Paula went into her office and sat down at the huge antique partners' desk which dominated the room. After taking the Aire Communications papers out of her briefcase, she picked up a red pen and wrote dead in capitals across the front of the bulging folder. She rose, went to -the filing cabinet, and slipped it inside, then returned to her desk. The deal was dead as far as she was concerned. The negotiations had ended in a fiasco, and in consequence she had lost all interest in Aire Communications.

More than any other of the Harte offspring, Paula had inherited an unusual number of Emma's characteristics, and those she had not been bom with she had acquired by osmosis from years of working at Emma's side. Chief amongst these was the ability to admit any kind of mistake with openness and candor and then put it behind her philosophically. Like Emma, she would invariably say: It didn't work. Perhaps my judgment was flawed. But let's go on from here. We mustn't look back.

And this was exactly what she said to herself now. In her mind Aire Communications was already a thing of the past.! If she had gravely misjudged John Cross and wasted a great deal of time and effort on him, she had no intention of compounding these errors by dwelling on them unnecessarily. She wondered whether she ought to give her grandmother a ring to explain what had happened, then decided against it. Grandy was seeing both Alexander and Emily this morning and was bound to be busy. Later she would drive out to Pennistone Royal as arranged and apprise her of the situation. Grandy is going to be disappointed, of course, she thought, sorting through the sheaf of messages. But that won't last long, and I'll soon find another project for her.

Picking up the telephone, Paula returned all of her business calls, signed the stack of letters Agnes had typed, and then sat back in the chair, glancing at her personal messages.

Her mother had called. Nothing important. Don't bother to call back. Will see you tonight, Agnes had scribbled, then added one of her inimitable postscripts: Mrs. Amory sounded marvelous, elated about tomorrow. We had a lovely chat. She's got a new hairstyle and is wearing a gray Christian Dior suit for the event.

Paula smiled at Agnes's comments, then scanned the message from her cousin, Sarah Lowther. Apparently she was fighting a cold and might not be well enough to attend the christening. But she didn't sound at all sick, Agnes had written cryptically. How strange, Paula thought, frowning and rereading the slip of paper. Sarah obviously doesn't want to come. I xvonder why? Since she could not hazard a guess, she turned to the last message. Miranda O'Neill was at the Leeds office of O'Neill Hotels International. Please call her back before lunch, Agnes had instructed.

Paula immediately dialed Miranda's private number. The line was busy, as it usually was when she was in the city. Like her grandfather, Miranda had what the poet Dylan Thomas had called, "the beautiful gift of the gab." She could easily be talking for the next hour. Automatically Paula's thoughts turned to Miranda's brother, Shane, and instantly she saw his vivid laughing face in her mind's eye. She was terribly disappointed she had missed him earlier. Such a visit had become a rarity. For years he had made it a habit to drop in on her, both in Leeds and London, and when these unexpected visits had ceased abruptly, she had been hurt and baffled.

Shane O'Neill, son of Bryan, grandson of Blackie, had been Paula's closest friend since childhood. They had grown up with each other, had spent all of their school holidays together, and had been inseparable for most of their lives—so much so that Emma had nicknamed Paula the Shadow. As her mind lingered on Shane, she realized she had not set eyes on him for many, many months. He was constantly traveling these days, dashing off to Spain and the Caribbean, where a number of the O'Neill hotels were located; when he was in England and if she chanced to run into him, he had a preoccupied air and a distant manner. She exhaled softly, slowly. How odd it was that their closeness should end with such finality, as it had a year ago. This still puzzled her. When she had eventually tackled Shane, had asked him what had happened between them, he had looked at her in the most peculiar way and denied that anything had. He had blamed business and his time-consuming schedule for his absence from her life. Perhaps he had simply outgrown her. Childhood friendships often did change radically; very frequently they deteriorated to such an extent they could never be reinstated. Regrettably, she thought. And I do miss him. I wish I'd been here this morning.

The buzz of the telephone cut into her thoughts. She reached for it. Agnes said, "It's Miss O'Neill, Mrs. Fairley."

"Thanks, Agnes, put her through, please."

A split second later Miranda's lilting voice flowed over the wire. "Hello, Paula. I thought I'd better call you again, since my phone's been busy for ages."

"That's par for the course," Paula said with an affectionate laugh. "When did you get in from London?"

"Last night. I drove up with Shane. And for the last time, I don't mind telling you. He's a maniac in a car. The tires sizzled the roads. I thought we'd end up in a ditch. I'll never know how I got here safe and sound. I was so shaken up and white when we arrived at the house, Mummy knew immediately what had happened. She's forbidden me to drive with him again. She gave him quite a piece of her mind, and—"

"I'll bet," Paula broke in with another laugh. "Your mother

thinks the sun shines out of Shane. He can't do anything wrong in her eyes."

"Well, he's in the doghouse at the moment, my dear. She really told him off, and so did Dad."

"Shane came to see me today, Miranda."

"Hey, that's good news. Like you, I can't understand why he's so aloof with you these days, but then he's a strange one, that big brother of mine. Too much of the Celt in him, perhaps. Anyway what did he have to say?"

"Nothing, Miranda, since I wasn't here. I was out at a meeting."

'Too bad. Still he's coming to the christening. I know you had your doubts, but he told me he was definitely going to go. He even offered to drive me." Miranda groaned in mock horror at this idea. "I declined. I was going to go with Crandpops, but naturally he's escorting Aunt Emma. So I'll toddle over by myself. Listen, Paula, apart from wanting to say hello, 1 was wondering if you'd like to have lunch? I've got to come over to the store to pick up a package for my mother. I could meet you in the Bird Cage in half an hour. What do you think?"

"That's a nice suggestion. Merry. Ill see you there at noon."

"It's a date," Miranda said. "Bye."

"Bye." As she began clearing her desk of papers, Paula was suddenly glad Miranda had suggested lunch. Her friend was a delight to be with and a very special girl, with her naturalness, her sweetness, her gaiety and effervescence. She had a joyous, carefree disposition, and laughter sprang readily to her lips, undoubtedly the reason why her nickname Mirry had soon turned into Merry when she was small.

Paula smiled to herself, wondering what Miranda was wearing today, what surprise was in store for her. The twenty-three-year-old girl had a penchant for creating the most outlandish outfits—costumes really—but they were put together with imagination and style, and she certainly carried them off with elan. They would have looked perfectly ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow they were exactly right on Miranda O'Neill. Apart from suiting her tall, somewhat boyish figure, they were an adjunct to her fey and whimsical personality. Or so it seemed to Paula, who considered Merry to be an original, the one genuine free spirit she knew. Her grandmother was equally as fond of Miranda and said that

Blaclde's granddaughter was the best tonic in the world for all of them because she chased their blues away. "There's not a bad bone in that girl's body," Emma had remarked to Paula recently. "And now that she's grown up, she reminds me a lot of her grandmother. There's a good deal of Laura Spencer in Merry—Laura's true goodness for one thing. Also there's a wise head on those young shoulders, and I'm pleased you two have become such good friends. Every woman needs a close and trusted friend of the same sex. I should know. I never really had one after Laura died."

Remembering these words of Emma's, Paula thought: But she always had Blackie, and she still has him; xvhereas I've lost Shane. Funny, though, that Miranda and I drew closer together once Shane had dropped'out . . .

There was a knock, and Agnes poked her head around the door. "These proofs just came up from the advertising department. Can you give them your okay?"

"Yes, come in, Agnes."

"They're the advertisements for the spring fashion sales," Agnes explained, handing them to her.

After studying the newspaper advertisements for a few seconds, Paula initialed the proofs, gave them back to her secretary, and stood up. "I'm going out onto the floor for a while. Could you phone the Bird Cage, Agnes, and tell them I'll need my usual table, please. At noon."

"Right away," Agnes said as they went out together.

When Emma Harte had first opened the cafe on the second floor of the Leeds store, she had called it the Elizabethan Gazebo and had decorated it in the style of an English country garden. Such things as handpainted wallpaper depicting pastoral scenes, panels of white trellis, artificial topiary animals, and antique bird cages combined to create a most enchanting little setting.

Over the years, as she refurbished the cafe, the name changed to match the theme, or vice versa. But always a garden or outdoor motif prevailed, often with an international avor, as Emma had given rein to her imagination and fantasies with flair and not a little wit. After a trip to the Bosphorus with Paul McGill, she had been inspired to create the effect of a courtyard in a seraglio. Mosaic tiles, silver wallpaper painted with peacocks, potted palms, and a splashing fountain were combined in the new design. She had called the caf£ Turkish Delight and had been delighted herself to witness its instantaneous popularity as a smart gathering place, not only for women shoppers but local businessmen who came in for lunch. Several years later Emma decided a more homespun motif was' in order. Highland Fling was the name she chose, and the setting took on the appearance of a Scottish castle yard, featuring rustic furniture and colorful tartans. Eventually this ambiance gave way to one which suggested an oriental teahouse and drew its inspiration from the elegant decorative elements of the Far East. The cafe was renamed the China Doll. Then came the Balalaika, redolent of nineteenth-century Russia; after that it was transformed into Riviera Terrace, and in 1960 Emma redid the caf<§ yet again. This time she used a sophisticated theme based on the skyline of New York City, lining the walls with giant-sized photographic murals of Manhattan. The decor suggested a big-city roof garden, and she called it Skyscrapers. But by the late summer of 1968 Emma had grown tired of this decorative mood; and as the caffi needed a complete overhaul at this time, she gave the project to Paula, asking her to create something different.

Paula knew everything there was to know about all of the stores in the Harte chain, and she remembered the photographs she had seen of the original Elizabethan Gazebo. She went into the archives, dug out the original plans and sketches, and was instantly struck by the uniqueness and beauty of the antique bird cages. Since she was aware they were stored in packing cases in the basement, she had them brought up and unwrapped. And so the current theme and the latest name were born.

Paula had the wooden and brass bird cages repainted or repolished and, after finding more to add to the collection, she featured them throughout the restaurant. They stood out beautifully against a background of lime-green wallpaper overpattemed with a sharp white trellis design; white wicker chairs and matching tables with glass tops reiterated the outdoor mood. Paula loved all growing things, was in fact a gifted gardener, and so her final, masterly touch was a lush assortment of small trees, flowering shrubs, and plants. It was the many pots of hydrangeas and azaleas that gave the Bird Cage its cachet, and this real garden within the heart of the store bloomed in all seasons under her personal supervision. Emma had recognized at once that it was an evocation of her own first design and as such a little tribute to her, and she was flattered.

A few minutes after twelve on this Friday morning, Paula hurried into the Bird Cage, and as always she was struck by the refreshing sight of the flowers and foliage, one which appeared to cheer everyone up. Moving between the tables, where morning shoppers were settling down to lunch, Paula saw that Miranda O Neil! had already arrived. Her burnished copper hair, cascading in a glorious mass of waves and curls around her heart-shaped face, seemed to catch and hold all the light, was like a shining beacon at the far side of the room. Miranda glanced up from the menu she was perusing, saw Paula, and waved.

"Sorry I kept you waiting," Paula apologized when she reached the table. "I was delayed in the Designer Salon. We've been having the most awful trouble with the new lighting, and I wanted to check on it again. It's still not right, I'm afraid." She bent down and kissed her friend, slipped into the next chair.

Miranda grinned a little impishly, and said, "Oh dear, the trials and tribulations of running a store! I'll swap jobs with you any day. Doing public relations for a chain of hotels can be the pits at times.'

"If I remember correctly, you really badgered your father for that job."

"That s true. But I wouldn't have if I'd known what I was letting myself in for," Miranda grumbled, making a long face. But she then had the good grace to laugh and admitted, "I suppose I enjoy it, really. It's only occasionally that I feel the pressure. But right now I'm in Dad's good books. He's very happy with my latest campaign, and he even went so far as to say I d been innovative the other day. That's praise indeed from him. He's not given to paying me compliments, as you know. He even said that if I behave myself, he's going to send me to Barbados in a few weeks, to look over the hotel we've just bought there. By the time we've remodeled it and redecorated, it 11 be super deluxe and as elegant as the Sandy Lane. We all believe it's going to be an important addition to our chain."

"That's marvelous, Merry. Really exciting for you. Now, shall we order? I don't want to rush you, but I have to leave the store early today."

"No problem, I'm a bit pushed myself." Miranda glanced

at the menu again and said, "I'll have the plaice and chips, I think."

"Good idea. I'll join you." Paula caught the attention of the waitress, ordered, and then turned to Miranda, looking her over quickly, at once captivated by her outfit. Today she was wearing a rather theatrically styled jerkin with a wide, flaring collar and three-quarter sleeves, and it was laced up the front over a white silk shirt with longer sleeves. There was a twinkle in Paula's eyes as she said, "You look like a female Robin Hood in all that Sherwood Green suede. Merry. The only things that are missing are a quiver of arrows and a perkly little felt hat with a sweeping feather."

Miranda broke into laughter. 'Don't think I don't have the hat! I do. But I didn't dare wear it to lunch, in case you'd think I was bonkers. Everyone else does." She swiveled in the chair to reveal her legs, which were encased in tight green-suede pants and matching boots that came up above her knees. "When Shane saw me this morning, he said I looked like the Principal Boy in a pantomime. I went the whole hog with this outfit, I'm afraid. Is it too theatrical?"

"Not really. And you could have worn the hat. I for one happen to like you in your fanciful costumes."

Miranda looked pleased. "Coming from the elegant you that's a real compliment." Leaning closer, she hurried on, "Are you and Jim busy tonight? I was wondering if I could invite you out to dinner?"

"I'd love you to join us tonight, if you won't be bored. Grandy's having a family dinner at Pennistone Royal."

"I'm not sure that that's still on, Paula, four grandmamma has a hot date with my grandfather." Miranda's laugh held a hint of mischief, which was reflected in her eyes, as she said, "Can you imagine, and at their ages!"

Paula was thrown by this statement. "Oh you must be mistaken. I'm certain Grandy intends to be there."

"I'm not wrong, honestly I'm not. I heard Shane talking to my father a little while ago. Grandfather is taking Aunt Emma out to dinner. But I was only teasing when I said they had a hot date, since Shane's going with them."

'Then Grandy must have changed her plans," Paula said, dreading the thought of the dinner without her grandmother's presence. "I expect my mother will play hostess in her place, since I can't imagine Grandy actually canceling it without talking to me first.'

"No, I don't think she would do that." Leaning forward again, her manner still teasing, Miranda said, "When my grandfather and your grandmother get together, they're incorrigible. I told him the other day that it was about time he made an honest woman out of Aunt Emma and married her."

"If anyone's incorrigible, it's you, Merry! And what did Uncle Blackie say to that?"

"He chuckled and told me he'd-only been waiting for my approval, and now that he had it, he was going to pop the question. 'Course, I knew he was only kidding me in return. But to tell you the truth, I don't think it's such a bad idea, do you?"

Paula merely smiled. She said, "Anyway, getting back to the family dinner, you're very welcome. Come around seven-thirty for drinks. Dinner's at eight-thirty."

"You are a darling, Paula. Thank you. You've just rescued me from a boring evening with Ma and Pa. All they do these days is talk about the baby."

"I'm not sure your evening with us will be much more stimulating. My mother has become something of a doting grandma. All she does is rave about the twins. I can't seem to shut her up."

"But I adore Aunt Daisy. She's such a lovely woman and not a bit like the rest of you—" Miranda stopped, horrified at her words. Her pale, freckled face flamed to scarlet.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Paula demanded, a dark brow arching as she pretended to be insulted, but the amusement touching her mouth betrayed her.

"I didn't mean it the way it came out," Miranda exclaimed in embarrassment. "I wasn't referring to you or Aunt Emma or your cousins, but to your aunts and uncles actually. I am sorry, though. It was rather rude of me."

"Don't apologize, I happen to agree with you." Paula fell silent, thinking specifically of her Aunt Edwina, the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, who was due to arrive from Ireland later that day. It was because of Edwina that she and Jim had had their First truly serious quarrel. Some weeks ago, to her utter astonishment and disbelief, Jim had decided that Edwina must be invited to the christening. When Paula had objected strenuously and had reminded him that Edwina was no favorite of Grandy's, he had brushed aside her protestations and told her she was being silly.' And then he had reminded her that Emma wanted bygones to be bygones.

sought peace within the family. "Well, you'd better not invite Edwina until I've mentioned it to Grandy," Paula cautioned, and he had acquiesced to this suggestion at least. When she had told her grandmother about it, Emma had appeared off-hand, indifferent even, and had told her to accept the situation gracefully, to let him invite Edwina, and to put a good face on it if she accepted. But there had been a strange look in Grandy's eyes, and Paula suspected that Emma had been disappointed in Jim. As she had herself, but she had overcome this feeling, loving him as much as she did; and she had excused Jim, too, because he had no family of his own to invite to his children's christening, and Edwina was half Fairley. If only Edwina weren't so hostile to Emma and to her.

Miranda, studying her friend, saw that she looked troubled, and ventured, "You're awfully pensive all of a sudden, Paula. Is something wrong?"

"No, no, of course not." Paula forced a smile and, changing the subject, asked, "How's your mother?"

"Her health's much better, thanks. Also I think she's finally recovered from the shock of getting pregnant at forty-five and giving birth to a change-of-life baby. And little Laura is simply adorable. I love to watch Grandfather playing with her. He's quite infatuated, and of course he's thrilled they called her Laura after my grandmother. They almost gave me that name, you know."

"No, I didn't, Merry."

"Yes. Then they changed their minds, I suppose. But I wouldn't have minded being named for my grandmother, and I certainly wish I'd known her. She must have been a remarkable woman. Everyone loved her so, especially Aunt Emma."

"Yes, and Grandy told me only the other day that she's "never stopped missing Laura since the day she died."

"We're all muddled up, aren't we, Paula?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Hartes and the O'Neills. And the Fairleys, for that matter. Our lives are inextricably linked ... we can't really escape each other, can we?"

"No, I don't suppose we can."

Miranda reached over and squeezed Paula's hand. "I'm glad we can't. I think it's rather nice to have you and Aunt Emma and Aunt Daisy for a second family." Her huge hazel eyes, sparkling with tiny prisms of gold, overflowed with warmth and affection.

Paula returned the pressure of her hand. "And it's nice for me to have the O'Neills."

The arrival of the waitress with the tray of food interrupted this exchange, and for the next fifteen minutes or so the two young women talked mostly about Paula's babies,'the christening the next day, and the reception Emma was giving after the church ceremony. But then Miranda-quite suddenly adopted a serious tone when she said, 'There's something . very important I'd like to discuss with you."

Paula, at once noticing the change in her friend's demeanor, asked swiftly, "Do you have problems?"

"Not at all. But I do have an idea I'd like to throw at you, to get your reaction."

"What kind of idea, Merry?" she asked curiously.

"You and I doing business together."

"Oh." This was the last thing Paula expected, and after her initial exclamation she was startled into momentary silence.

Miranda grinned and, not giving her a chance to comment further or brush the idea to one side, rushed on, "I had a flash of inspiration last week when I was going over the blueprints for the new hotel we're building in Marbella. The architect has planned a galleria of shops, and it struck me immediately that we must include a boutique. Naturally I thought of Harte's; then I realized one boutique wouldn't interest you. So I took the idea a step further . . . Harte boutiques in all of our hotels. There's the new one we're doing over in Barbados, we're about to remodel the Torre-mollinos hotel, and eventually the entire chain will get a revamp. .We could have a boutique in each one, and Harte's could run them." Miranda sat back and searched Paula's face for a clue to her feelings, but it was unreadable. She asked eagerly, "Well, what do you think?"

"I'm not sure," Paula said noncommittally. "Have you discussed this with Uncle Bryan?"

"Yes, and Dad liked the idea. He was very gung ho actually and told me to talk to you." Miranda gazed at her friend expectantly and crossed her fingers. "Would you be willing to go into the venture with us?"

"I think we might be. I'd have to talk to my grandmother, of course." This was uttered with Paula's usual caution, but she could not conceal the interest quickening on her face.

With a small rush of excitement, she thought: It could be the perfect project for Grandy. The one I've been looking for, and it would certainly take the sting out of the Cross fiasco. Straightening up, Paula said in a more positive voice, "Give me some additional details, Merry," arid she listened attentively as the other girl talked. Within minutes she began to recognize the endless possibilities and advantages inherent in Miranda O'Neill's idea.

Chapter Four

Emma sat up with an abrupt jolt.

I don't believe it, I almost dozed off, she thought with exasperation. Only old ladies do that in the middle of the day. She began to laugh. Well, she was an old lady, wasn't she, even though she was loath to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.

Shifting her position on the sofa, she stretched, then straightened her skirt, and immediately became aware of the heat from the blazing fire. The room was stifling even for her— she, who had always suffered from the cold and rarely ever felt warm enough. No wonder she had become so drowsy.

With a burst of energy she propelled herself up and off the sofa and hurried to the windows. She opened one of them and took several deep breaths, fanning herself with her hand. The crisp air felt good, and the breeze brushing against her face soon refreshed her, and she stood there for a moment or two until she was cooler before turning away and retracing her steps.

Her pace was slower, and she looked around as she skirted the two large plump sofas in the center of the floor. She nodded with pleasure, thinking how lovely the room appeared at this moment, washed as it was in the golden sunlight now streaming in through the many windows. But then it always did look beautiful to her, and she would rather be here than anywhere else on this earth.

Is it age, I wonder, that makes us cleave to the best-known spaces in our lives, to the well-loved and familiar things? Is it the memories of the years gone .by and of those we cared so much about, which bind us to those places and make them so special in our deepest hearts? She believed that this was true—at least for her. She felt safe, and comforted, when she was in surroundings where so many episodes of her long arid colorful life had been played out.

Such a place was Pennistpne Royal, this ancient, historic and rambling house on the outskirts of Ripon, which she had purchased in 1932. In particular she favored this room—the upstairs parlor—where she had spent so many endless happy hours over the years. .She had often wondered how it had come to be called the upstairs parlor, for there was nothing parlorlike about it at all. This struck her once again as her glance took in the impressive architectural details and the splendid furnishings.

By the very nature of its -dimensions, the room had a singular grandeur, with its high, Jacobean ceiling decorated with elaborate plasterwork, its tall leaded windows flanking the unique oriel window, and the carved fireplace of bleached oak. Yet for all its imposing detail and despite its size, Emma had introduced a mellow charm and great comfort, plus a subtle understated elegance that had taken time/much patience, superb taste, and a vast amount of money to create.

Being confident of her original choices, Emma had never felt it necessary to change anything, so the room had remained the same for over thirty years. She knew for -instance that no other paintings could ever surpass the fine portraits of a young nobleman and his wife by Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the priceless Turner landscape. The three oils were in perfect harmony with her graceful Georgian antiques, collected so lovingly and with infinite care. And such things as the Savonnerie carpet, faded now to a delicate beauty, and her Rose Medallion china in the Chippendale cabinet, were matchless touches that added to the room's graciousness and style. Even the walls were always repainted in their original primrose, for to her discerning eye this pale and delicate color made the most restful backdrop for the art and the rich patinas of the dark woods, and it introduced the cheerful sunny aspect she preferred.

This morning the springlike mood of the setting, created by the airy color scheme and the brightly patterned chintz on the sofas, was reinforced by porcelain bowls brimming with jonquils, tulips, and hyacinths, which spilled their lively yellows, reds, pinks, and mauves onto some of the darkly gleaming surfaces, and their fragrant scents were aromatic on the still and gentle air.

Emma moved forward, then paused again in front of the fireplace. She never tired of looking at the Turner which hung above the mantelpiece, dominating the soaring chimney wall with its misty greens and blues. The landscape was bucolic, evocative, and a superb example of Turner's poetic and visionary interpretations of the pastoral scene.

It's definitely the light, she decided for the hundredth time, as always fascinated by the luminous sky in the painting. In Emma's opinion no one had ever been able to capture light on canvas in quite the same manner as Turner. The clear cool light in this masterpiece was forever associated in her mind with the northern skies under which she had grown up and had lived for most of her'life, and which she would love always. She believed them to be unique because of their clarity and a radiance that seemed unearthly at times.

Her eye now caught the carriage clock, reposing on the mantelpiece. It was almost one. She had better pull herself together and very smartly, since Emily was due momentarily, and everyone had to be on their toes when the volatile, whirlwind Emily was around. Most especially old ladies, she added, chuckling softly again.

Hurrying briskly into the adjoining bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table. After dabbing her nose with powder, she renewed her pink lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. There, that does it. Passable, she added under her breath, peering into the glass. No, more than passable. I really do look pretty nifty today, as Alexander said I did.

She swung her head and stared at Paul's photograph standing on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.

I wonder what you would think of me if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?

Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of
dust off the glass. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York on February the third of 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Rise Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterward Paul had taken them to Delmonico's for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson's talk of impending war, and Paul's equally bleak assessment of the world situation. Paul's mood had been gay later at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.

She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had passed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.

Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life . . . particularly a long life like mine.

Without thinking, she spoke aloud, "If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been." Unexpectedly her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.

"Grandma ... are you alone?" Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.

Startled, Emma jumped and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. "Oh hello, Emily dear. I didn't hear you come through the parlor. And of course I'm alone."

Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, "I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran."

"I was. I was talking to him." She inclined her head at the photograph and added dryly, "And if you think I'm getting

senile, you can forget it. I've talked to that photograph for thirty years."

"Gosh, Grancly, you're the last person I'd ever think of as being senile!" Emily was quick to reassure, meaning every word. "Mummy maybe, but never you."

Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. "Where is your mother, Emily? Do you know?"

"Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that's where she's gone."

"Haiti," Emma sat up in the'chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. "Isn't that the place they practice voodoo. 1 hope she isn't having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does."

Emily also laughed, shaking her head. "Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn't think of anything like that. 1 doubt she's ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I'm sure she's far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman."

"Oh. So, she's done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations."

"Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy." Emily's green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.

Emma said, "Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious title. What's this one's name?"

"Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He's always in the gossip columns. And you're right on target regarding his character. But he doesn't have a title, dubious or otherwise."

"That's a relief. I'm sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unpronounceable names, grandiose ideas, and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn't he?"

"I'd categorize him as IWT, Gran."

"What on earth does that mean, dear?" Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.

"International White Trash."

Emma guffawed. "That's a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily."

"It's a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfill in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won't be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London." Emily made a disagreeable face. "Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair's fashionable drawing rooms for years, and I'm surprised Mummy got involved with him. He's so transparent. He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran."

Emma frowned. "Have you met him then?"

"Yes and before Mummy too." She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pass at her first; That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, "He's quite ghastly."

Emma sighed and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive—frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of-hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said with some asperity, "Your mother is impossible. Impossible. Where are her brains, for God's sake? Don't bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian."

Emily stared at her in disbelief. "Grandy!" she shrieked. "What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him."

"I changed my mind," Emma replied loftily. "As it turned out he wasn't a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins." She stood up. "Let's go into the parlor and have a drink before lunch." She tucked her arm through Emily's compan-ionably and steered her across the floor. She asked again, "So where is Gianni what's-his-name?"

"He's around. He's moved out of Mummy's flat, of course.

But he's still in London. He's got himself a job with some Italian importing company—antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He's rather attached to them, I think."

"I see." Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself onto one of the sofas. "I'd like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honors, please dear."

"Yes, Grandy. I think I'll have one myself." Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal glasses. Emma's eyes followed her. In the red wool suit and frilly lilac blouse, Emily reminded her of an iridescent hummingbird, so small, so swift, so brilliantly plumed, and so full of life. She's a good girl, Emma thought. -Thank God she hasn't turned out like her mother.

Mixing the drinks deftly, Emily said, over her shoulder, "Talking of my baby half-sisters, Gran, are you going to let them stay at Harrogate College?"

"For the moment. But I fully intend to pack them off to finishing school in Switzerland this September. In the meantime they seem to be happy at the college. Of course I realize that's because of my proximity. I suppose I spoil them, letting them come home so much." Emma paused, remembering the fuss and bother and upset the previous year, when her two youngest grandchildren had tearfully begged to come and live with her. Emma had finally succumbed tinder their constant pressuring, although her acquiescence had been conditional. For their part, they had had to agree to attend the nearby boarding school Emma had selected. The girls had been thrilled, their mother delighted to be rid of them, Emma relieved that she had averted a nasty family contretemps from developing further.

Leaning back against the cushions, she let out a tiny sigh. "Anyway, spoil them or not, I do feel those two need mothering and a chance to lead a normal family life. They've had little enough of either with your mother.'

"That's true," Emily agreed, carrying the drinks over to the seating arrangement in front of the fire. "I feel a bit sorry for them myself. I suppose Alexander and I got the best of Mummy—I mean, her better years. The girls have had a rough time of it ... all those husbands. It seems to me that ever since she left their father,' our mother has been on a downward slide. Oh well, what can you do? ..." Emily's

young breathy voice petered out sadly. She shrugged in resignation, and her whole demeanor reflected her disenchantment. "There's not much you or I can do about your daughter, my mother, Grandy. She's not likely to change."

Emily now looked across at her grandmother, her blond brows meeting in a frown. She said in a fretful tone, "The trouble with poor Mummy is that she suffers from the most terrible insecurity about herself, her looks, her figure, her personality . . . well, just about everything."

"Oh, do you think so?" Emma exclaimed in astonishment at this remark. Her face changed, and there was a glint of malice in her flinty green eyes as she remarked, with immense coldness, "I can't imagine why.." She lifted her glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers, Gran darling."

Emma settled into a comer of the vast sofa, and, squinting in the sunlight, she focused on the attractive twenty-two-year-old Emily. The girl had a special place in her affections, for apart from being open and uncomplicated, she had a very lovable personality, one that was sunny, cheerful, and perennially optimistic, and she was a dynamic girl, filled with enthusiasm for life and her work. If Emily's pink-and-cream blond prettiness had the porcelain fragility of a Dresden shepherdess, it was nevertheless deceptive, belying an extraordinary drive that had the velocity and power of an express train running at full speed. Emma knew there were those in the family, specifically her sons, who thought Emily was scatterbrained and flippant. This secretly amused Emma, since she was fully aware that Emily purposely chose to give this fraudulent impression. In no way did it reflect her basic seriousness and diligence. Emma had long ago decided that her sons really disliked 'their niece because she was far too blunt and opinionated—and truthful—for their comfort. Emma had been witness to more than one scene when the intrepid Emily had made Kit and Robin squirm.

Emma looked into the clear green eyes, a reflection of her own as they had once been, saw the expectancy flickering in them, then noted the confident smile etched on Emily's mouth. Emily had obviously convinced herself she was going to get her own way. Oh dear. Taking a deep breath, Emma said with a faint laugh, "For someone with a serious problem, you certainly don't look very troubled, dear. You're positively glowing this morning."

Emily nodded and admitted, "I don't think my problem's all that serious, Grandy. I mean, it doesn't seem to be today."

"I'm glad to hear that. You sounded as if you had the burdens of the world on your shoulders, when you spoke to me on Tuesday morning."

"Did I really?" Emily laughed. "I suppose things seem so much brighter when I'm with you. Perhaps that's because I know you can always solve any problem, and I just know you'll—" She broke off when Emma held up a silencing hand.

Emma said, "I've known for some time that you want to go back to Paris, to work in the store there. That is what you want to discuss, isn't it? That is your problem?"

"Yes, Gran," Emily said, her eyes shining with eagerness.

Emma put down her drink on the butler's tray table and leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. She said carefully, "I'm afraid I can't let you go to Paris. I'm very sorry to disappoint you, Emily, but you will have to stay here."

The happy smile vanished, and Emily's face dropped. "But why, Grandy?" she asked in a crushed voice. "I thought you were pleased with the way I handled things in Paris all last summer and through the autumn."

"I was. Very pleased in fact and proud of you. Your performance has nothing to do with my decision. No, that's not strictly true. One of the reasons I've formulated new plans for you is because of the way you performed over there." Emma's eyes did not leave her granddaughter's face as she explained carefully, "Plans for your future. Which, in my considered opinion, is with Harte Enterprises."

"Harte Enterprises!" Emily cried, her voice rising incredulously.

She froze on the sofa, staring at her grandmother dumbfounded. "Where would I fit in there? Alexander, Sarah, and Jonathan are working in that company, and I'd just be a spare wheel! A dog's body, with nothing to do. Anyway, I've always worked for you. In the stores. I love retailing, and you know that, Gran. I'd just hate, positively hate and detest, being pushed into that organization," Emily protested with uncommon fierceness, flushing bright pink. Breathlessly she rushed on, "I really mean it. You ve always said it's important to enjoy one's work. Well, I certainly wouldn't enjoy working at Harte Enterprises. Oh please let me go to Paris. I really love that store, and I want to continue to help you get it properly on its feet. Please change your mind. Please, oh please, Gran darling. I'll just be miserable if you don't," she wailed, and her face was as woebegone as her voice as she clenched her hands together in her lap.

Emma made an irritated clucking noise and shook her head reprovingly. "Now, now, Emily, don't be so dramatic," she exclaimed with unusual sharpness. "And do stop trying to cajole me. I know all about your wheedling. Sometimes it works; other times, like right now, I am quite impervious to it. And incidentally, the Paris store is on its feet, thanks in no small measure to you. So you're not needed there anymore. Very frankly, I need you here."

This remark, although uttered mildly, caused Emily to sit up swiftly, and she frowned, further taken aback. "You need me, Grandy. What for? What do you mean?" Emily's eyes widened and filled with worry. She wondered if her grandmother had a serious problem within Harte Enterprises. Hardly. Her health? That seemed unlikely too. But obviously something was amiss.

"What's wrong, Grandma?" she asked, giving words to her spiraling anxiety, all ideas about Paris swept completely out of her head.

"There is nothing wrong, dear," Emma said with a bright smile, detecting the girl's concern. "Before I explain my reasons for wanting you here, I'would like to clarify my remark about your future. Naturally I realize you like working at the stores, but you can't get much further at Harte's. Paula and your Uncle David have the real power there these days, and Paula will inherit all of my shares one day. Paula respects your ability, and she would love to keep you by her side, but Emily, you'd always be a salaried employee, with no financial interest whatsoever. I do—"

"I know that," Emily interjected. "But—"

"Don't interrupt me," Emma snapped, cutting her off. "As you learned last spring, I have left you sixteen percent of Harte Enterprises, and that's a'huge interest, since the company is so very rich. And solid. As solid as the Bank of England, in my opinion. Your wealth, your future security will come from your shares in Harte Enterprises, and I have felt for the longest time that you must have a hand in running it. After all, it will belong in part to you one day."

Emma could not fail to miss the worried expression now settling on Emily's face, and she reached across the table and squeezed her arm affectionately. "Don't look so distressed.

I'm not implying that I lack confidence in your brother. You must know that I don't. Alexander will guide and guard Harte Enterprises with all of his strength and ability, and with great devotion, I've no fear. Nevertheless I want you to be active there, along with Sandy and your cousins. 1 really believe that you must direct that considerable energy of yours, and your many talents into the company in which you have such a major stake, and from which you will reap so many benefits."

Emily was quiet, mulling over her grandmother's words, and after a longish pause, she said slowly, "Yes, I see what you mean, and I know you have my interests at heart, but there's nothing about the company that appeals to me. Anyway, Sarah has always enjoyed running the clothing end, and she'd resent it if you shoved me in there with her. As for Jonathan, he'd really get on that high horse of his, if you foist me on him. He considers the real estate division to be his little kingdom and his alone. He'd be in revolt if I started poking around there. So what would I do at H.E.? The only thing I understand is retailing." Her voice faltered, for she was on the verge of tears, and she looked away swiftly, staring out the window, her expression exceedingly glum.

The prospect of leaving the Harte chain of stores and Paula, whom she worshiped, was depressing and distressing to Emily. And she would have to leave. That had already been decided, she,had the good sense to recognize. Her opinion wasn't being sought. She was being told what to do, told what was expected of her, and her grandmother's authority was unassailable. Besides that cold and stubborn look was now engraved on her grandmother's face, and it was a look they were all familiar with, one which left nothing to the imagination. It said in no uncertain language that Emma Harte would have her own way no matter what. Emily felt the prick of tears behind her eyes as she contemplated her miserable future. Mortified, she blinked them back and swallowed, endeavoring to hold on to her diminishing composure. Tears, emotion, and any other sign of weakness in business were anathema to her grandmother.

Emma, observing the girl closely, saw how troubled and upset she was growing, and realized immediately that she must allay Emily's worries. Adopting her most sympathetic manner, Emma said, "Don't take this so hard, dear. It's not half as bad as you imagine. And I certainly had no intention of putting you in either of the divisions run by your cousins.

That wouldn't be fair to any of you. Nor am I considering making you Sandy's assistant—if that idea has entered your agile little brain. No, no, nothing like that. When I said I needed you here,-1 did mean here. In Yorkshire. I would like you to work at General Retail Trading and learn everything there is to know about that division of Harte Enterprises. You see, Emily, I want you to run it for me eventually."

For a moment Emily thought she had misheard. She was so surprised she was speechless. She gaped at her grandmother and then finally managed to ask, "Are you serious?"

"Really, Emily, that's a stupid question. Do you honestly think / would joke about my business?"

"No, Grandy." Emily bit her lip, trying to digest her grandmother's words. The General Retail Trading Company, known within the family as Genret, was one of Harte Enterprises' most important assets and an enormous money maker. As the implications behind her grandmother's announcement began to sink in, she was assaulted by a mixture of emotions: She was flattered, overwhelmed, worried, and scared all at once. But these feelings were almost instantaneously overshadowed by genuine bafflement.

Sitting forward with a jerk, she asked in a puzzled voice, "But why do you suddenly need me? You have Leonard Harvey. He's been running Genret for years and brilliantly. Or so you've always said."

"And I meant what I said." Emma picked up her drink, took a sip, sat nursing it in her hands. "However, Len reminded me several weeks ago that he will be retiring in three years. I'd hoped he would stay on, but he insists on going when it's time. He wants a chance to enjoy life, do a few of the things he's always wanted to do, like take a trip around the world, for one thing." Emma laughed softly. "I can certainly understand his point of view. That man's worked for me for over thirty-five years, and I don't remember him ever taking a day off, except for his annual summer holidays in August. Naturally, I'd no option but to agree, albeit reluctantly."

Emma put down her drink, rose, and went to stand with her back to the fireplace. She stared down at Emily and continued matter-of factly, "Len brought up his retirement because he thought it was high time I started to think about his successor. It occurred to me at once that here was the perfect opening for you. I've been racking my brains for months, wondering how to get you situated within Harte Enterprises in a division you would enjoy. I believe I've found it, Emily, and I'm also convinced Genret could well use your special talents."

Emily said nothing. She, who had an opinion about everything which she usually had no qualms expressing, was now oddly at a loss for words.

Emma stood waiting, giving Emily a chance to catch her breath and marshal her thoughts. She understood perfectly the girl's unprecedented reticence. She had just dropped a bombshell on her..But as the silence grew, Emma, always in a hurry to settle matters and move on, announced peremptorily, "I need you to start working at'Genret immediately. Len wants to begin his training program at once. Three years may seem like a long time to you, but it isn't really. Genret is a large company, and you will have a great deal to absorb and understand. So what do you say?"

 Still Emily was mute, and Emma threw her a sharper look. Then she scowled at her. "Come along, dear, you must have some comment to make. I can't believe that the cat's got your tongue permanently."

Pulling herself together, Emily gave her grandmother an uncertain smile. "Are you sure? Really sure about me going into Genret?"

"I wouldn't have suggested it, if I'd had any doubts," Emma retorted crossly.

"But what about the group at Genret?" Emily asked quickly. "I mean, will they sit still for it? For me?"

"I am Genret, Emily. Or had you forgotten that?"

"No, no, of course I hadn't. Grandmother. What I meant was, will Len and the top management team accept me? I know you can appoint anybody you want, since it's your company, but surely Len must have a protege', somebody he would like to follow in his footsteps, who knows the inner workings of Genret."

"He doesn't. Furthermore he thinks you're the ideal choice. And he's not just pandering to me. Len's too shrewd and outspoken to fall into that trap. And, while he realizes I would like a member of the family inside Genret once he goes, he would tell me point-blank if there was no suitable candidate. He would insist we look outside the family. It just so happens that he thinks you're ideally suited to head up a wholesale supply company. For several reasons, all of them excellent. Your experience with the stores, your considerable knowledge of retailing, not to mention merchandise, plus your natural business abilities. That you also happen to be my granddaughter is simply fortuitous. It didn't influence him one iota, I can assure you of that. Besides, you're a quick study, Emily, and you've learned a lot in the last five years."

"I'm glad to have Len's vote of confidence as well as yours, Grandy." Emily started to relax, and as her depression also began to lift, she discovered she was excited about the sudden turn of events. She asked, "And Alexander? Have you discussed it with him?"

"Naturally. He thinks you'll be marvelous."

"What does Paula say?"

"She's delighted too. She's going to miss you at the stores, but she recognizes the good sense behind my plans for you."

"Then it's settled!" Emily beamed and allowed her natural enthusiasm to surface. "Genret is a big responsibility, but now that I've recovered from my initial surprise, I'm looking forward to it, I really am. I'll try very hard, and I'll do my best not to let you down."

"I know you will, dear." Emma returned her smile, delighted to finally witness Emily's eagerness and her excitement. Not that she had had any doubts about her offer being accepted. Emily was far too clever to thwart her, or to pass up the opportunity to head a division. Besides Emily loved a challenge. This last thought prompted Emma to add, "I'm quite certain you'll enjoy this new venture as much as you did your sojourn in Paris last year. It's going to be equally as challenging and ultimately very' rewarding."

"Yes, I know it will be." With a sudden flush of embarrassment, Emily recalled her outburst of earlier. Looking extremely shamefaced, she apologized, "I'm sorry I behaved in such a childish way, when you said I couldn't go back to Paris, Grandy. It was ridiculous of me to act like that."

"I -understand. You were disappointed. In any case, you'll be going to Paris quite a lot for Genret and traveling all over the world on your buying trips. That's certainly something to look forward to, Emily."

"Oh it is, Grandy. And thank you for your faith in me and for this wonderful opportunity." Emily jumped up and hugged Emma tightly. With a happy little laugh, she said, "Oh Grandy, you re such an inspiration! You make everything seem possible—and attainable. And exciting as well. Do you know what? I feel like rushing down to the Genret offices in Leeds right now and getting stuck into the work with Len immediately."

"Len and Genret have managed to exist without you until now, Emily, so I think they'll survive for another few days," Emma replied, her mouth twitching with hidden laughter. "In the meantime I have a much better idea. I think you should come downstairs with me and have lunch instead. -I don't know about you, but I'm famished."

Chapter Five

Emma sat at the table in her splendidly appointed Adam dining room, sipping a cup of coffee after lunch, smiling and nodding occasionally, enjoying Emily's natural joie de vivre and bubbling enthusiasm for everything. Earlier, when they had been eating, Emily had bombarded her with questions about Genret. Each one had been probing and not without a certain shrewdness, and this had pleased Emma.

Now, the twenty-two-year-old was entertaining her with tidbits of gossip about the family, and as usual Emma found her pithy comments hilarious. Robin and Kit were most often the butts of her barbed wit, and she had already managed to get in a few sharp digs about her uncles.

But here her sarcasm stopped, for she never made astringent or unkind remarks about anyone else. Although Emily tended to be something of a chatterbox, she was not malicious, nor was she a talebearer intent on stirring up trouble. In point of fact, she was anything but this, and Emma was well aware that her granddaughter's predilection for chattering was harmless enough, especially since she knew herself to be the girl's only confidante. To Emma's considerable relief, Emily was not only discreet but extremely close-mouthed with everyone else in the family, and even Paula and Alexander, with whom she was on very intimate terms, were no exceptions to this rule.

Unexpectedly Emily veered away from her discourse on the family and launched into glowing descriptions of the outfits she had chosen for the fifteen-year-old twins to wear the next day. Recently Emily had elected to play a motherly big-sister role with Amanda and Francesca, and Emma had assigned to her the task of selecting their clothes and looking after similar details.

But it was not very long before Emma found her attention straying, her mind forever preoccupied with business, and specifically Paula's meeting with the Crosses. She could not help speculating on the outcome, wondering how Paula had fared. If the negotiations had gone well, she was facing a fair amount of work. Not that this troubled Emma unduly. She had always thrived on honest^:to-goodness toil and still did, and Paula had laid out foolproof plans for the takeover.

Emma and Paula wanted Aire Communications for its three most important assets: its magazine division, its local radio stations, its huge, modem building in the Headrow. Following Paula's advice, she fully intended to make Aire Communications a subsidiary of the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company. Once she had relocated the entire staff of Aire in the offices of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, her newspaper headquartered in Leeds, she would sell the Aire Communications building. This would enable her to cut down on Aire's staggering overhead, and at the same time she would cleverly recoup part of the purchase price, possibly a good half of her two-million-pound investment. Yes, that building's worth at least a million, Emma reflected, whatever Jonathan says to the contrary. She would have to have a little talk with her trandson tomorrow, a very serious talk. He was dragging his jet with his second evaluation of Aire's prime bit of real estate. She had asked him for it days ago, and he had not yet responded. Once again she wondered why, and her mouth tightened.

"Grandy, you're not listening to me!" Emily shook her arm impatiently.

"Oh sorry, dear. You were saying you'd chosen navy blue dresses and coats for the twins. I'm sure they're very smart, you have such good—"

"Goodness, Gran, that was five minutes ago," Emily interjected. "I was already onto another subject. Aunt Ed-wina to be precise."

"Now why on earth is she suddenly so interesting to you?"

"She's not really. I think she's an old sourpuss and a

crashing bore," Emily said in her typical blunt fashion. "However, I'm positive we're going to be in for a rocky ride with her this weekend. I bet she's going to give us all an earful."

"What about?" Emma asked, sounding slightly baffled.

"The divorce," Emily said succinctly.

This'reply brought Emma upright in her chair, and she stared hard at Emily. "So, you've heard about that, have you?" Surprise immediately gave way to humor, and Emma chuckled and shook her head. "Is there anything you don't know about this family of ours?"

"Not much," said Emily, grinning at her. "But I don't pry, Gran. You know that. Everyone just tells me things automatically. It must be my sympathetic nature." Her grin widened. "And then I tell you. Never secrets, though. I don't break a confidence. Ever."

"I should hope not, dear. Remember what I've aKvays said ... a still tongue and a wise head. Anyway, who mentioned Anthony's divorce?"

"Jim. He came to see me last weekend. He wanted my opinion about something, my advice really. He brought up the divorce in passing. It was Aunt Edwina who told him. Apparently shes terribly upset . . . scandal touching the sacred name of the Dunvales and all that silly nonsense. As if anybody cares about divorce these days. But she'll harp on about it for the next few days, you mark my words."

"I doubt it, since Anthony will be here himself. "In fact, he's already here."

"In this house?" It was Emily's turn to be astonished.

"No. He's staying with your Uncle Randolph up at Middle-ham. Actually, He's going to be there for the next week." A wicked gleam entered Emma's eyes, and she could not resist teasing, "Obviously there are some things you don't know, Emily. Our young earl is staying with the Hartes because he's courting Sally. Very seriously courting her." Emma was unable to hold back a laugh as she observed the expression on Emily's face.

Emily was so dumbfounded by this piece of news that her jaw dropped. But it took less than a second for her to recover, and she retorted, "And I bet Aunt Edwina doesn't know either! Otherwise she would have scuttled that relationship ages ago. And she'll still try."

"She can do nothing," Emma snapped, her face hardening. "Anthony is not only of age, he's thirty-three. He doesn't

have to answer to his mother, or anyone else for that matter, and I told him so last night. He has my blessing. Frankly, I'm glad he's going to marry Sally. She's a fine girl and quite lovely, and it's a perfect match in my opinion."

"I second that about Sally being a lovely person. But then I'm prejudiced. So are you—even more so, because she looks so much like your mother. And Edwina's going to be prejudiced too, in the other direction." Emily stopped, thinking of her aunt's reaction, which would be violent, and she cried excitedly, "Oh my God! I can't wait to see Aunt Edwina's face when she finds out he's involved with Sally Harte. She's going to be absolutely furious, Grandma. She has such grand ideas about everything. And after all, Sally's only a generation removed from the working class."

"And what do you think Edwina is?"

"A countess," Emily giggled gleefully, "and a Fairley to boot! She's never been the same since she discovered her father was Sir Edwin Fairley, and a K.C., no less. She's an even bigger snob now than she was before. It's a pity you ever told her the truth about you and old Edwin, Gran."

"I'm inclined to agree with you."

Emma averted her face,'looked out the window, focused her thoughts on her eldest grandchild, son of her own first-bom child. Anthony Standish was the only offspring of Edwina's marriage with the Earl of Dunvale, and as' such he was her whole life. Because Emma had been estranged from Edwina for years, she had hot really come to know Anthony until he was eighteen. That was in 1951, when her brother Winston had effected a reconciliation between her and her daughter. More like an armed truce, Emma said inwardly, but at least the boy and I took to each other immediately, and thankfully we have continued to be close. She was extremely fond of Anthony, who, despite his reserved nature and gentle manner, had an inner strength and a toughness of mind that Emma had recognized instantly and privately applauded. Upon his father's death, he had inherited the latter's title and lands in Ireland. For the most part Anthony lived at Clonloughlin, his estate in County Cork, but whenever he had the occasion to be in England, he never failed to visit her. It was on one of these trips to Yorkshire six months ago that he had become reacquainted with Sally, Winston's granddaughter, who was his cousin. According to Anthony they had fallen in love at once. "It was a coup defoudre, Grandmother," he had confided shyly last night. "And as soon as my divorce from Min is final, I intend to marry Sally." Emma, delighted at this news, had indicated her pleasure and assured him of her full support.

Shifting in the chair, Emma glanced at Emily and said, "I wouldn't worry your head about Anthony. He can take care of himself. I told him not to hide his relationship with Sally anymore—from his mother, that is—and to behave naturally at the christening. We might as well get this out in the open once and for all."

"Edwina will make trouble, Grandma. Big, big trouble," Emily warned, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

"If she knows what's good for her, she won't," Emma replied, her voice murderously soft. "Now, on to other things. You said Jim wanted your advice. What about, Emily?"

"The gift he's bought for Paula. It's a strand of pearls, and he wasn't sure she'd like them. But they're beautiful, and I told him she'd be thrilled."

"That's nice." Emma glanced at her watch, feeling restless. "I'll have another quick cup of coffee, and then I'd better go up and do a little paperwork .until Paula arrives."

"I'll get the coffee for you," Emily volunteered, taking Emma's cup to the sideboard. Returning with it, she said, "I had dinner with T.B. when I was in London on Tuesday. He sends his love."

Emma's face softened considerably. She had always cared for Tony Barkstone, Elizabeth's first husband and father of Emily and Alexander. They had remained good friends over the years, and she asked, with a warm smile, "How is he?"

"In good form. He's as sweet as always, and he seems happy. No, content might be a better word. Or perhaps accepting is even better. Yes, that's it. He's accepting." Emily sighed heavily.

And a little too dramatically, in Emma's opinion. But then Emily was a romantic girl and Emma knew that she had long harbored the desire for her parents to be reunited. A most unlikely event, as far as Emma was concerned. Looking at Emily thoughtfully, Emma's brow lifted quizzically, and she murmured, "Accepting is a peculiar word to use about your father's life, isn't it, dear?"

"Not really. I think T.B. is accepting—of his new family. But I don't believe my father has been really happy since he split with Mummy. To tell you the truth, Gran, I think he's still in love with her." She confided this in an intense tone, giving Emma a long and knowing look.

"Oh phooey!"

"Well, she was his grand passion, that I know for a fact— because he once told me so. I believe he's carrying a torch for her."

"That's a bit farfetched, Emily. They've been divorced for donkey's years."

"Even so, he could have remained shackled to her emotionally." Emily tilted her blond head to one side and wrinkled her nose. "Unrequited love and all that. Why are you looking so skeptical, Grandma? Don't you believe that's possible?"

"Possible. Not very practical. And I'm quite certain your father has more common sense than to yearn after Elizabeth. He had her pegged years ago."

"I hope you're right. I'm sure that being in love with someone who doesn't care in return is most unsatisfactory, not to mention painful. Very impractical in the long run, as you just said." A faraway expression flickered in Emily's wide green eyes, and she said, almost inaudibly, "If only Sarah would recognize that."

As quiet as her voice had been, Emma had heard her. She put down her coffee cup with a loud clatter and gaped at Emily, frowning. "Our Sarah. Is she in love with someone who doesn't love her?"

"Oh gosh, Gran, I shouldn't have mentioned Sarah. It's really none of my business," Emily muttered, her face flushing and filling with chagrin. "Please don't say anything to her, will you? She'd be ever so upset."

"Of course I won't say anything. I never do, do I? Who's she carrying a torch for? That's what you implied, you know."

Emily hesitated. She was suddenly tempted to fib. But she had never lied to her grandmother in her whole life. Still, perhaps in this instance she ought to resort to a white lie.

Emma pressed, "Who is it?"

There was a moment of silence. Emily swallowed, and, knowing herself to be trapped, she mumbled, "Shane."

"I'll be damned." Emma leaned back and focused her keen old eyes on her granddaughter, "Well, well, well," she said, and a slow smile spread across her face.

Emily shot up in her chair, her eyes flaring open, and she cried, "Oh Grandy, don't look like that! Please don't look like that!"

"And how am I looking?"

"Gratified. And ever so conspiratorial, I know you and Uncle Blackie have long had hopes that one of us, or one of the Harte girls, would marry Shane O'Neill and unite our families. But he's not interested in any of us, except for—" Emily bit off the rest of her sentence abruptly, instantly wishing she could also bite off her tongue. This time she really had said far too much. She jumped up and went to the Hepplewhite sideboard, where she hovered over the silver bowl of fruit. "I think I'll have a banana," she said, attempting nonchalance. "Would you like one too, Gran dear?"

"I certainly wouldn't, thank you very much." Emma swung her head ana studied her granddaughter's back. "Except for whom, Emily?"

"No one. Gran." Emily wondered how to extricate herself adroitly, without arousing her grandmother's suspicions further. She sauntered back to her chair, flopped down, and attacked the banana with her dessert knife and fork, her head studiously bent.

Emma watched her, knowing that Emily was avoiding her eyes. And avoiding answering.

"I know you were about to tell me who Shane is interested in, Emily. If anyone knows, it's you." She laughed lightly, endeavoring to be casual. "You've always been my conduit for information about everyone in the family. And out of it for that matter. So come along, finish your sentence."

Emily, who was still cutting the skin off the banana with painstaking care, finally lifted her head. Her face was a picture of innocence as she said, "I wasn't about to reveal a thing, really I wasn't. I'm not in Shane's confidence—I don't know anything about his love life. What I was going to say, before, is that he isn't interested in any of us except for a one-night stand."

"Really, Emily!"

"Sorry." Emily dropped her eyes, then coyly looked up at Emma through her long lashes. "Have I shocked you, Grandma?"

"At my age I'm shock-resistant, my girl," Emma replied tartly. "But I am rather surprised by your remark about Shane. It wasn't very nice. Extremely unkind in fact." A new thought struck Emma, and she gave her granddaughter a fierce stare. "Has he ever suggested anything of the sort—"

"No, no, of course not," Emily burst out peremptorily before Emma could finish. And then she was swift to qualify her previous statement about Shane. "It's-just a feeling I have about him," she mumbled, hating herself for maligning Shane, who was the nicest person imaginable. "I didn't mean any harm, Grandy, honestly I didn't. Besides, who can blame him for being a bit of a lady killer, when women fall at his feet like ninepins? That's hardly his fault."

"True," Emma acknowledged. "But getting back to Sarah, I hope this crush she has on him is going to pass soon. 1 can't bear to think that she's miserable. How does she redly feel, dear?"

"I don't know, Gran," Emily replied in all truthfulness. "She's only discussed Shane with me once, ages ago, and I think she's regretted mentioning him ever since. But I know she's smitten with him, just through my own observation. She always blushes furiously whenever his name comes up, and she gets all self-conscious and sort of dopey when he's around." Emily leveled her gaze at Emma, and it was direct and candid as she added, "No, she'll never say anything to anyone about her feelings. Sarah's basically much too secretive to confide."

This last comment further surprised Emma, but she decided not to pursue it for the moment. Conscious of the girl's stricken expression, she hastened to say, "You don't have to be apprehensive about me, darling. - Have no fear, I won't mention Shane to Sarah ... I wouldn't dream of embarrassing her. And she'll come to her senses if she hasn't already." Emma's eyes rested on the bowl of spring hyacinths in the center of the table, and she ruminated briefly on all that had been said. When she raised her head, she smiled kindly at Emily. "I don't want you to think I'm questioning your powers of observation or your judgment, but-you do have a tendency to be overly imaginative at times. You could be wrong about Sarah. Perhaps she has forgotten Shane by now in view of his lack of interest in her. She does have her feet on the ground, you know."

"Yes, Gran," Emily said, although she did not agree with her grandmother's assessment of her cousin. Sarah might look as if her feet were firmly planted on the ground, but her head was most definitely in the clouds. Emily bit her lip, and she wished more fervently -than before that she had never mentioned Sarah in the first place. Embarking on this kind of conversation with her canny grandmother had been a horrible mistake. The trouble was she was constantly doing it. Emma had always been the most dominant and important person in her young life, and confiding everything in her was a childhood ^habit which was difficult if not impossible to break. But Emily was thankful for one thing—she had caught herself in the nick of time, had managed not to reveal the truth about Shane to Grandy, who doted on him as if he were one of her own.

The realization that she had protected him made Emily feel better, for she liked and admired Blackie's grandson. She smiled to herself as she toyed with the banana in front of her, filled with sudden self-congratulation. For once she had been rather clever, side-stepping Grandy's probing so skillfully. And thankfully Shane O Neill's secret was still safe. It would always be safe with her. Poor Shane, she thought with a twinge of sadness, what a terrible burden he has to cany. Stifling a sigh, Emily finally said, "I don't think I want any more of this," and she pushed her dessert plate away, making a face.

Emma, anxious to bring the lunch to an end, nodded quickly and said, "I'd better get back to my desk. What are your plans for this afternoon? You've finished at the Harro-gate store, haven't you?"

"Yes, Grandy. I completed the stock inventories you wanted and selected the clothing for the sales," Emily explained, relieved that Emma had apparently now dismissed Shane and Sarah Lowther from her mind. "I'm going to potter around in my room. Hilda asked one of the maids to unpack my suitcases when I arrived, but 1 prefer to arrange my things myself."

"Suitcases in the plural, Emily? How many did you bring?"

'Ten, Gran."

"For the weekend?"

Emily cleared her throat and gave her grandmother one of her most engaging and persuasive smiles. "Not exactly. I thought I'd stay with you for a while, if that's all right with you. It is, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Emma answered slowly, wondering what this unexpected move on Emily's part was all about. "But what about your flat in Headingley?" she thought to ask with a small frown.

"I want to get rid of it. I have for some time, actually. I decided to sell it, or rather that you should ask Jonathan to do so. Anyway, last night I packed a lot of my clothes and other things, because I'd convinced myself you'd be sending me to Paris next week. Now that I'm not going, I might as well stay here at Pennistone Royal. I'll be company for you, Gran. You won't be so lonely."

I'm not lonely, Emma thought but said, "I'm probably being dense, but you seemed awfully taken with that flat when I bought it for you last November. Don't you like it anymore, Emily?"

'It's a very nice flat, really it is, but— Well, to be honest, Gran darling, I have felt rather isolated there by myself. I'd much rather be here. With you!" Emily flashed her beguiling smile again. "For one thing, it's a lot more fun. And exciting."

"Personally I find it pretty dull here. Pretty dull indeed," Emma muttered and stood up, headed for.the dining room door. Over her shoulder she said, "But you're quite welcome, Emily," and she hoped she had not sounded too grudging. First the twins and now Emily, she sighed under her breath. Suddenly they're all moving in on me. And just when I thought I was going to get some peace and quiet for once in my life.

As she walked briskly across the vast Stone Hall and mounted the staircase, with Emily trailing in her wake, Emma had another thought: Maybe she would take Blackie up on his little proposition after all.

Paula talked and Emma listened.

They sat together in the upstairs parlor, facing each other across the Georgian silver tea service which Hilda had brought up a few minutes after Paula had arrived.

Emma had poured tea for them both, but she had hardly touched her own cup. She sat so still on the sofa she might have turned to stone, and the familiar mask of inscrutability had dropped down over her face as she concentrated on Paula's words, absorbing each one.

Paula spoke well, recounting the meeting at Aire Communications with precision and careful attention to the smallest detail, and her narration was so graphically descriptive Emma

felt as though she had been present herself. Several times she experienced a spurt of anger or annoyance, but not an eyelash flickered, not a muscle moved in her blank, impenetrable face, and not once did she interrupt the flow of words.

Long before Paula came to the retelling of the final scene in the boardroom, Emma's mind, so agile and astute, leaped ahead. She knew without having to be told that John Cross had reneged on the deal. For a moment she was as startled as Paula had been earlier in the day, but when this initial reaction passed with some swiftness she realized she was not so surprised after all. And she came to the conclusion that she knew John Cross better than she had believed. Years ago she had spotted him for what he was—an egotist, puffed up with his own self-importance, a foolish man with immeasurable weaknesses. At this time in his life he was between a rock and a hard place, dealing from fear and desperation and propelled by increasing panic, and it was patently clear that he would be capable of just about anything. Even a dishonorable action, for apparently he was a man without scruples. And then there was that disreputable son of his, goading him on. A pretty pair indeed, she thought disdainfully.

Paula came to the end of her story at last and finished with a tiny regretful sigh, "And there you have it, Grandy. I'm sorry it ended in a debacle. I did my best. More than my best."

"You certainly did," Emma said, looking her fully in the face, proud of her, thinking how she had progressed. A year ago Paula would have blamed herself for the breakdown in the talks. "You've nothing to reproach yourself for, and just chalk this one up to experience and learn from it."

"Yes, Grandy, I will." Paula regarded her closely. "What are you going to do now?" she asked, continuing to study that impassive face in an effort to gauge her grandmother's feelings about the Cross situation.

"Why nothing. Nothing at all."

Although she was not altogether surprised by this statement, Paula nevertheless felt bound to say, a bit heatedly, "I thought that might be your attitude, but I can't help wishing you'd give John Cross a piece of your mind, tell him what you think of him. Look at all the effort we put into this deal. He's not only wasted our valuable time but played us for a couple of fools."

"Played himself for a fool," Emma corrected, her voice low and without a trace of emotion. "Very frankly, I wouldn't waste my breath or the tuppence on a phone call to him. There's not much to be gained from flogging a dead horse. Besides, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing I'm put out. There's another thing . . . indifference is a mighty powerful weapon, and so I prefer to ignore Mr. Cross. I don't know what his game is, but I won't be a party to it." The look Emma gave Paula was full of shrewdness and her eyes narrowed. "It strikes me that he might be using our offer to jack up the price with another company. He won't succeed, he won't have any takers." A cynical smile glanced across her face, and she laughed quietly to herself. "He'll come crawling back to you, of course. On his hands and knees. And very soon. Then what will you do, Paula? That's more to the point." Settling back against the cushions, she let her eyes rest with intentness on her granddaughter.

Paula opened her mouth to speak, then closed it swiftly. For a split second she hesitated over her answer. She asked herself how Grandy would act in these particular circumstances and then dismissed the question. She knew exactly what her course of action was going to be.

In a resolute tone, Paula said, "I shall tell him to go to hell. Politely. I know I could hammer him down, get Aire Communications at a much lower figure, because when he does come back to us, and I agree that he will, he'll be choking. He'll accept any terms I offer. However, I don't want to do - business with that man. I don't trust him."

"Good girl!" Emma was pleased with this reply and showed it, then went on, "My sentiments exactly. I've told you many times that it's not particularly important to like those with whom we do business. But there should always be an element of trust between both parties in any transaction; otherwise it's begging for problems. I concur with what you think about Cross and that son of his. Their behavior was appalling, unconscionable. I wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot barge pole myself."

Despite these condemning words and the stern expression lingering on Emma's face, her overall reaction had been so understated, so mild that Paula was still a trifle puzzled. "I thought you'd be much more annoyed than you are, Grandy, unless you're not showing it. And you don't seem very disappointed either," she said.

"My initial anger soon changed to disgust. As for being disappointed, well, of course I am in some ways. But even that is being replaced by an enormous sense of relief. As much as I wanted Aire Communications, now, quite suddenly, I'm glad things turned out the way they did."

"I am too." There was the slightest hesitation on Paula's part before she remarked quietly, "Sebastian Cross has become my enemy, Grandmother."

"So what!' Emma exclaimed in a dismissive tone. "If he's your first, he's surely not going to be your last." As she spoke, Emma became aware of the concern reflected in the lovely, deep violet eyes fastened on hers, and she sucked in her breath quickly. Making an enemy troubles Paula, she thought, and she reached out and squeezed the girl's arm, adopted a gentler tone. "As unpleasant as it may be, you're bound to make enemies, as I myself did. Very frequently it happens through no fault of ours—that's the sad part." Emma let out a tiny sigh. "So many people are jealous and envious by nature, and you will always be vulnerable to that kind and a target, because you have so much. Wealth and power through me, not to mention your looks, your brains, and your immense capacity for work. All very enviable attributes. You must learn to ignore.the back biting, darling, rise above it. As I have always done. And forget Sebastian Cross. He's the least of your worries." '

"Yes, you're right on all counts, as usual, Grandmother," Paula said and pushed away the dismaying memory of those hard eyes which had filled with loathing for her that morning. She felt a shiver trickle through her. Sebastian Cross would do her harm if he could. This unexpected thought immediately seemed silly, farfetched, and overly imaginative. Paula laughed silently at herself and dismissed such an idea.

Rising, she crossed to the fireplace and stood warming her back for a moment or two. Her eyes swept around the lovely old room. It looked so peaceful, so gentle in the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the many windows, with every beautiful object in its given place, the fire crackling merrily in the huge grate, the old carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece as it had for as long as she could remember. She had loved the upstairs parlor all her life, had found comfort and tranquility here.- It was a room abundant with graciousness and harmony, where nothing ever changed, and it was this timelessness which made it seem so far removed from the outside world and all its ugliness. It's a very civilized room, she said to herself, created by a very civilized and extraordinary woman. She looked across at Emma, relaxed on the sofa and so pretty in the pale blue dress, and her eyes became tender. Paula thought: She is an old woman now, in her eightieth year, yet she never seems old to me. She could easily be my age with her vigor and strength and zest and enthusiasm. And she is my best friend.

For the first time since she had arrived, Paula smiled. "So much for my wheeling and dealing . . . skirmishing might be a better way to describe it, Grandy."

"And so much for my new project. Now that that's flown out the window, I'll have to find another one or take up knitting."

Paula could not help grinning. "That'll be the day," she retorted, merriment swamping her face. Stepping back to the sofa, she sat down, lifted her cup, and took a sip of tea, then remarked casually, "I had lunch with Miranda O'Neill today, and—"

"Oh dear, that reminds me, I'm afraid I won't be here for dinner this evening. I'm going out with Blackie and Shane."

"Yes, so Merry told me."

"My God, can't I take a breath around here without everyone knowing!" Emma paused, scanned Paula's face. "Well, you don't seem too upset, so I presume you don't mind that I'm trotting off and leaving you to cope with Edwina. Don't worry, she'll behave."

"I'm not concerned. I was at first, but I decided she's Jim's problem. He invited her, so he can entertain her. In any case, Mummy's always pretty good with Edwina. She knows how to appropriately squelch her, in the nicest possible way too." Paula put down her cup and saucer, leaned closer. "Listen, Grandy dear, Merry has had an idea, one that might appeal to you. It could be just the project you're looking for."

"Oh, has she. Well then, tell me about it."

Paula did so, but as she came to the end of her little recital, she made a small moue with her mouth and finished lamely, "I can tell you're not enthusiastic. Don't you think it's a good idea?"

Emma laughed at her crestfallen expression. "Yes, I do. However I'm not interested in taking it on as a personal project. Still, that doesn't mean you shouldn't pursue the idea and develop it further with Merry. It could be good for

the stores. Come back to me when you have it refined. Perhaps we will open the boutiques."

"I'll set up a meeting with her for next week—" Paula stopped, peered at Emma. "Out of curiosity, why don't you think it's a project for you?"

"There's no challenge to it. I like tougher nuts to crack."

"Oh Lord! And where on earth am I going to find such a thing for you?"

"I might find my own project, you know." Emma's green eyes twinkled, and she snook her head. "You're constantly trying to mother me these days. I do wish you'd stop."

Paula joined in Emma's laughter and admitted, "Yes, I am doing that lately, aren't I. Sorry, Gran." She glanced at the clock, swung her eyes back to Emma, and said, "I think I'd be much better off going home and mothering my babies. If I hurry, I'll get back in time to help the nurse bathe them."

"Yes, why don't you do that, darling. These early years are the most precious, the best really. Don't sacrifice them."

Paula stood up and slipped into the magenta jacket, found her handbag, came to kiss Emma. "Have a lovely time tonight, and give Uncle Blackie and Shane my love."

"1 will. And if I don't see you later, I'll talk to you in the morning."

Paula was halfway across the room when Emma called, "Oh, Paula, what time do you expect Jim and your parents?"

"Around six. Jim said he'd be landing at Leeds-Bradford airport at five."

"So .he's flying them up in that dreadful little plane of his, is he?" Emma pursed her lips in annoyance and gave Paula the benefit of a reproving stare. "I thought I'd told the two of you I don't like you flitting around in that pile of junk."

"You did indeed, but Jim has a mind of his own, as you well know. And flying is one of his main hobbies. But perhaps you'd better mention it to him again."

"I certainly will," Emma said and waved her out of the room.

Chapter Six

They all said that he was a true Celt.

And Shane Desmond Ingham O'Neill had himself come to believe that the heritage of his ancestors was buried deep in his bones, that their ancient blood flowed through his veins, and this filled him with an immense satisfaction and the most profound pride. When he was accused by some members of his family of being extravagant, impetuous, talkative, and vain, he would simply nod, as if relishing their criticisms as compliments. But Shane often wanted to retort that he was also energetic, intelligent, and creative; to point out that these, too, had been traits of those early Britons.

It was as a very small boy that Shane O'Neill had been made aware of his exceptional nature. At first he had been self-conscious, then confused, puzzled, and hurt. He saw himself as being different, set apart from others, and this had disturbed him. He wanted to be ordinary; they made him feel freakish. He had detested it when he had overheard adults describe him as fey and overly emotional and mystical.

Then, when he was sixteen and had more of an understanding of the things they said about him, he sought further illumination in the only way he knew—through books. If he was "a curious throwback to the Celts," as they said he was, then he must educate himself about these ancient people whom he apparently so resembled.- He had turned to the volumes of history which depicted the early Britons in all their splendor and glory, and the time of the great High Kings and the legendary Arthur of Camelot had become as real to him and as alive as the present.

In the years that followed his interest in history had never waned, and it was a continuing hobby. Like his Celtic forebears he venerated words and their power, for filled with a recklessness and gaiety though he was, he was also a man of intellectual vigor. And perhaps it was this extraordinary mingling of contrasts—his mass of contradictions—that made him so unusual. If his angers and enmities were deep-rooted, so his loves and loyalties were immovable and everlasting. And that theatricality, constantly attributed to the Celt in him, existed easily alongside his introspection and his rare, almost tender understanding of nature and its beauty.

At twenty-seven there was a dazzle to Shane O'Neill,. an intense glamour that sprang not so much from his remarkable looks as from his character and personality. He could devastate any woman in a room; equally, he could captivate his male friends with 'an incisive discussion on politics, a ribald joke, a humorous story filled with wit and self-mockery. He . could entertain with a song in his splendid baritone, whether he was rendering a rollicking sea shanty or a sentimental ballad, and poetry flew with swiftness from his tongue. Yet he could be hard-headed, objective, outspoken, and honest almost to the point of cruelty, and he was ambitious and driven, by his own admission. Greatness, and greatness for its own sake in particular, appealed strongly to him. And he appealed to everyone who crossed his path. Not that Shane was without enemies, but even they never denied the existence of his potent charm. Some of these traits had been passed on from his paternal Irish grandfather, that other larger-than-life Celt, whose physique and physical presence he had inherited. Yet there was also much of his mother's ancestry in him.

Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O'Neill stood with his horse, War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still Eroud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless alls, and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone among the daffodils, snowdrops, and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.

With his vivid imagination, it was never hard for Shane to visualize how it had once been centuries ago when Warwick and Gareth Ingham, an ancestor on his mother's side, had lived within that stout fortress, spinning their convoluted schemes. Instantly in his mind's eye, he saw the panoply unfolding as it had in a bygone age .,. . glittering occasions of state, princely banquets, other scenes of royal magnificence, of pomp and ceremony, and for a few seconds he was transported into the historical past. Then he blinked, expunging those images, and lifted his head, tore his eyes away from the ruined battlements, and gazed out at the spectacular vista spread before" him. He always felt the same thrill when he stood on this spot. To Shane there was an austerity and an aloofness to the vast and empty moors, and a most singular majesty dwelled within this landscape. The rolling moors swept up and away like a great unfurled banner of green and gold and umber and ochre, flaring out to meet the rim of the endless sky, that incredible blaze of blue shimmering with silvered sunlight at this hour. It was a beauty of such magnitude and stunning clarity that Shane found it almost unendurable to look at, and his response, as always, was intensely emotional. Here was the one spot on this earth where he felt he truly belonged, and when he was away from it, he was filled with a sense of deprivation, yearned to return. Once again he was about to exile himself, but like all of'his other exiles, this too was self-imposed.

Shane O'Neill sighed heavily as he felt the old sadness, the melancholy, trickling through him. He leaned his head against the stallion's neck and squeezed his eyes shut, and he willed the pain of longing for her to pass. How could he live here, under the same sky, knowing she was so close yet so far beyond his reach. So he must go ... go far away and leave this place he loved, leave the woman he loved beyond reason because she could never be his. It was the only way he could survive as a man.

Abruptly he turned and swung himself into the saddle, determined to pull himself out of the black mood which had so unexpectedly engulfed him. He spurred War Lord forward, taking the wild moorland at a flat-out gallop.

Halfway along the road he passed a couple of stable lads out exercising two magnificent thoroughbreds, and he returned their cheery greetings with a friendly nod, then branched-off at the Swine Cross, making for Allington Hall, Randolph Harte's house. In Middleham, a town famous for a dozen or more of the greatest racing stables in England, Allington Hall was considered to be one of the finest and Randolph a trainer of some renown. Randolph was Blackie O'Neill's trainer and permitted Shane to stable War Lord, Feudal Baron, and his filly, Celtic Maiden, at Allington alongside his grandfather's string of racehorses.

By the time he reached the huge iron gates of Allington Hall, Shane had managed to partially subdue his nagging heartache and lift himself out of his depression. He took several deep breaths and brought a neutral expression to his face as he turned at the end of the gravel driveway and headed in the direction of the stables at the -back of the house. To Shane's surprise, the yard was deserted, but as he clattered across the cobblestones, a stable lad appeared, and a moment later Randolph Harte walked out of the stalls and waved to him.

Tall, heavyset, and bluff in manner, Randolph had a voice to match his build, and he boomed, "Hello, Shane. I was hoping to see you. I'd like to talk to you if you can spare me a minute."

Dismounting, Shane called back, "It will have to be a minute, Randolph. I have an important dinner date tonight and I'm running late." He handed the reins of War Lord to the lad, who led the horse off to the Rubbing House to be rubbed down. Shane strode over to Randolph, grasped his outstretched hand, and said, "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"No, no," Randolph said quickly, steering him across the yard to the back entrance of the house. "But let's go inside for a few minutes." He looked up at Shane,-who at six-feet-four was several inches taller, and grinned. "Surely you can make it five minutes, old chap? The lady, whoever she is, will no doubt be perfectly happy to wait for you."

Shane also grinned. "The lady in question is Aunt Emma, and we both know she doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Only too true," Randolph said, opening the door and ushering Shane inside. "Now, have you time for a cup of tea or would you prefer a drink?"

"Scotch, thanks, Randolph." Shane walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, glancing around the room, feeling suddenly relaxed and at ease for the first time that afternoon. He had known and loved this study all his life, and it was his favorite room at the Hall. Its ambiance was wholly masculine, this mood reflected in the huge Georgian desk in front of the window, the Chippendale cabinet, the dark wine-colored leather chesterfield and armchairs, the circular rent table littered with such magazines as Country Life and Horse and Hounds, along with racing streets from the daily papers. A stranger entering this room would have no trouble guessing the chief interest and occupation of the o\vner. It was redolent of the Turf and the Sport of Kings, The dark green walls were hung with eighteenth-century sporting prints by Stubbs. Framed photographs of the winning race horses Randolph had trained graced a dark mahogany chest, and cups and trophies abounded. There was the gleam of brass around the fireplace, in the horse brasses hanging there, and in the Victorian fender. On the mantelpiece, Randolph's pipe rack and tobacco jar nestled between small bronzes of two thoroughbreds and a pair of silver candlesticks. The study had a comfortable lived-in look, was even a bit shabby in spots, but to Shane the scuffed carpet and the cracked leather on the chairs only added to the mellow feeling of warmth and friendliness.

Randolph brought their drinks, the two men clinked glasses, and Shane turned to sit in one of the leather armchairs.

"Whoahl Not there. The spring's going," Randolph exclaimed.

"It's been going for years," Shane laughed but seated himself in the other chair.

"Well, it's finally gone. I keep meaning to have the damn thing sent to the upholsterers, but I always forget."

Shane put his glass on the edge of the brass fender and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one and said, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Emerald Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?"

A surprised look flashed across Shane's face, and he sat up straighten "He'd be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she's a fine mare, but the Aintree course . . . Jaysus! as Blackie would say."

Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe, and began to pack it with tobacco. "Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She's done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points and most impressively." Randolph paused to light his pipe,

then remarked with a twinkle, "I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But seriously she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I've ever trained."

"Oh my God, this is wonderful news!" Shane cried, excitement running through him. "It's always been Grandfather's dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?"

"Steve Larner. He's a tough sod, just what we need to take Emerald Bow around Aintree. If anyone can negotiate her over Becher's Brook twice, it's Steve. He's a brilliant horseman."

"Why haven't you mentioned it to Grandfather?"

"I wanted to get your reaction first. You're the closest to him."

"You know he always takes your advice. You're his trusted trainer and the best in the business, as far as we're concerned."

"Thanks, Shane. Appreciate the confidence. But to be honest, old chap, I've never seen Blackie fuss over any of his horses the way he does that mare. He'd like to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, if you ask me. He was out here last week, and he was treating her as if she was his great lady love."

A grin tugged at Shane's mouth. "Don't forget, she was a gift from his favorite lady. And talking of Emma, did I hear a hint of annoyance when you mentioned her earlier?" . "Not really. I was a bit irritated with her last night, but ..." Randolph broke off and smiled genially. "Well, I never harbor a grudge where she's concerned, and she is the matriarch of our clan, and she's so good to us all. It's just that she can be so bloody bossy. She makes me feel this high." He held his hand six inches off the ground and grinned. "Anyway, getting back to Emerald Bow, I'd intended to mention it to Blackie tomorrow. What do you think about my timing? Should I wait until next week perhaps?"

"No, tell him tomorrow, Randolph. It'll make his day, and Aunt Emma will be delighted." Shane finished his drink and stood up. "I don't mind telling you, I for one am thrilled about this decision of yours. Now, I'm afraid I really have to leave. I want to stop by the stables for a second, to say goodbye to my horses." Shane smiled a trifle ruefully. "I'm going away again, Randolph. I'm leaving Monday morning."

"But you just got back!" Randolph exclaimed. "Where are you off to this time?"

"Jamaica, then Barbados, where we've recently bought a new hotel," Shane explained as they left the study together. "I've a great deal of work there, and I'll be gone for quite a few months." He fell silent as they crossed the stable yard, and Randolph made no further comment either.

Shane went into the stalls, where he spent a few moments with each of his horses, fondling them, murmuring to them affectionately.

Randolph hung back, watching him intently, and suddenly he experienced a stab of pity for the younger man, although he was not certain what had engendered this feeling in him. Unless it was something to do with Shane's demeanor at this moment, the look of infinite sadness in his black eyes. Randolph had retained a soft spot for Shane O'Neill since he had been a child and had once even hoped that he might take a fancy to Sally or^Vivienne. But the boy had always been patently uninterested in his two daughters, had remained slightly aloof from them. It was his son, Winston, who was Shane's closest friend and boon companion. A few eyebrows had been raised two years ago when Winston and Shane had bought a broken-down old manor, Beck House, in nearby West Tanfield, remodeled it, and moved in together. But Randolph had never questioned the sexual predilections of his son or Shane. He had no need to do so. He knew them both to be the most notorious womanizers, forever chasing skirts up and down the countryside. When his wife, Geor-gina, had been alive, she had often had to comfort more than one brokenhearted young woman, who showed up at the Hall in search of Winston or Shane. Thankfully this no longer happened. He wouldn't have known how to cope with such situations. He presumed that if there were any disgruntled young ladies, they beat a track directly to Beck House. Randolph smiled inwardly. Those two were a couple of scalawags, but he did love them both very dearly.

Shane finally took leave of his horses and walked slowly back to Randolph standing at the entrance to the stalls. As always, and especially when he had not seen him for a while, Randolph was struck by Shane's unique good looks. He's a handsome son of a gun, Randolph commented silently. Blackie must have looked exactly like Shane fifty years ago.

Putting his arm around the older man's shoulder, Shane said, 'Thanks for everything, Randolph."

"Oh lad, it's my pleasure. And don't worry about the horses. They'll be well cared for, but then you should know that by now. Oh and Shane, please ask Winston to call me later."

"I will."

Randolph's eyes followed Shane O'Neill as he strode off to his car, and there was a thoughtful look on his face. There goes one unhappy young man, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bafflement. He has everything anybody

could ever want. Health, looks, position, great wealth. He tries to conceal it, but I'm convinced he's miserable inside. And I'm damned if I know the reason why.

Beck House, so called because a pretty little stream ran through the grounds, stood at the bottom of a small hill, at the edge of the village of West Tanfield, about halfway between Allington Hall and Pennistone Royal.

Situated in a dell, shaded at the rear by a number of huge old oaks and sycamores, the manor dated back to the late Elizabethan period. It was a charming house, low and rambling, made of local stone supposedly from Fountains Abbey, and it had a half-timbered front facade, tall chimneys, and many leaded windows.

Winston and Shane had originally bought the old manor with the intention of selling it once they had rebuilt the ruined parts, remodeled the old-fashioned kitchen and bathrooms, added garages, and cleared away the wilderness which covered the neglected grounds. However, they had devoted so much time and energy and loving care on the house, had become so attached to the manor during the renovations, they had finally decided to keep it for themselves. They were the same age, had been at Oxford together, and had been close since their salad days. They enjoyed sharing the house, which they used mainly on weekends, since they both maintained flats in the Leeds area to be near their respective offices.

Winston Harte was the only grandson of Emma's brother Winston, and her great-nephew, and he had worked for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company since he had come down from Oxford. He did not have a specific job or a title. Emma called him her "minister without portfolio," which, translated, meant troubleshooter to most people. He was in a sense her ambassador-at-large within the company, her eyes and ears and very frequently her voice as well. His word on most things was the final word, and he answered only to Emma. Behind his' back the other executives called him "God," and Winston knew this and generally smiled to himself knowingly. He was well aware who "God" was at Consolidated. It was his Aunt Emma. She was the law, and he respected and honored her, and she had his complete devotion.

Young Winston, as he was still sometimes called in the family, had always been close to his namesake, and his grandfather had instilled in him a great sense of loyalty and duty to Emma, to whom the Hartes owed everything they had. His grandfather had worshiped her until the day he had died at the beginning of the sixties, and it was from him that Winston had learned so much about his aunt's early life, the hard times she had had, the struggles she had experienced as she had climbed the ladder to success. He knew only too well that her brilliant career had been hard won, built on tremendous sacrifices. Because he had been reared on so many fantastic and often moving stories about the now legendary Emma, Winston believed that in certain ways he understood her far better than her own children. And there was nothing he would not do for her.

Winston's grandfather had left him all of his shares in the newspaper company, while his Uncle Frank, Emma's younger brother, had left his interest to his widow, Natalie. But it was Emma, with her fifty-two percent, who controlled the company as she always had. These days, however, she ran it with Winston's help. She consulted with him on every facet of management and policy, frequently deferred to his wishes if they were sound, and constantly took his advice. They had a tranquil working relationship and a most special and loving friendship which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.

The newspaper company was.very actively on Winston's mind as he drove slowly into the grounds of Beck House. Even so, as preoccupied as he was, he noticed that the little beck was swollen from the heavy rains which had fallen earlier that week. He made a mental note to mention this to Shane. The banks would probably need reinforcing again; otherwise the lawns would be flooded in no time at all, as they had been the previous spring. O'Neill Construction will definitely have to come out here next week, Winston decided, as he pulled the Jaguar up to the front door, parked, took his briefcase, and alighted. He went around to the trunk of the car to get his suitcase.

Winston was slender, light in build, and about five foot nine, and it was easy to see at a glance that he was a Harte. In fact, Winston bore a strong look of Emma. He had her fine, chiseled features and her coloring, which was reflected in his russet-gold hair and vivid green eyes. He was the only member of the family, other than Paula, who had Emma's dramatic widow's peak, which, his grandfather had once told him, they had all inherited from Big Jack Harte's mother, Esther Harte.

Winston glanced up, squinting at the sky as he approached the short flight of steps leading into the house. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the east coast, and they presaged rain. There was a hint of thunder' in the air since the wind had dropped, and a sudden bolt of lightning streaked the tops of the leafy spring trees with a flash of searing white. As he inserted the key, large drops of rain splashed onto his hand. Damn, he muttered, thinking of the beck. If there's a storm, we're going to be in serious trouble.

Dimly from behind the huge cawed door, he heard the telephone ringing, but by the time he had let himself inside the house, it had stopped. Winston stared at it, fully expecting it to ring again, but when it didn't he shrugged, deposited his suitcase at the foot of the staircase, and walked rapidly through the hall. He went into his study at the back of the manor, sat down at his desk, and read the note from Shane telling him to call his father. He threw the note into the wastepaper basket and glanced vaguely at his mail—mostly bills from the village shops and a number of invitations for cocktail parties and dinners from his country neighbors. Putting these on one side, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk, and closed his eyes, bringing all of his concentration to bear on the matter at hand.

Winston had a problem, and it gave him cause for serious reflection at this moment. Yesterday, during a meeting with Jim Fairley at the London office, he had detected a real and genuine discontent in the other man. Oddly enough, Winston discovered he was not terribly surprised. Months ago he had begun to realize that Jim loathed administration, and in the last few hours, driving back from London, he had come to the conclusion that Jim wanted to be relieved of his position as managing director. Intuitively Winston felt that Jim was floundering and was truly out of his depth. Jim was very much a working newspaperman, who loved the hurly-burly of the newsroom, the excitement of being at the center of world events, the challenge of putting out two daily papers. After Emma had promoted him a year ago, upon his engagement to Paula, Jim had continued to act as managing editor of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and the Yorkshire Evening Standard. Essentially, by holding down the old job along with the new one, Jim was wearing two hats. Only that of the newspaperman fitted him, in Winston's opinion.

Maybe he ought to resign, Winston thought. It's better that Jim does one job brilliantly, rather than screw up on two. He snapped his eyes open, swung his legs to the floor purposefully, and pulled the chair up to the desk. He sat staring into space, thinking about Jim. He admired Fairley's extraordinary ability as a journalist, and he liked the man personally, even though he knew Jim was weak in many respects. He wanted to please everybody, and that was hardly possible. And one thing was certain: Winston had never been able to comprehend Paula's fascination with Fairley. They were as different as chalk and cheese. She was far too strong for a man like Jim, but then that relationship was none of his business really, and anyway perhaps he was prejudiced, considering the circumstances. She was a blind fool. He scowled, chastising himself for thinking badly of her, for he did care for Paula and they were good friends.

Winston now reached for the phone to ring Emma and confide his problem in her, then changed his mind at once. There was no point worrying her at the beginning of her very busy weekend of social activities which had been planned for weeks. Far better to wait until Monday morning and consult with her then.

All of a sudden he felt like kicking himself. How stupid he had been. He should have challenged Jim yesterday, asked him pointblank if he wanted to step down. And if he did, who would they appoint in his place? There was no one qualified to take on such heavy responsibilities, at least not inside the company. That was the crux of the problem, his chief concern. At the bottom of him, Winston had the most awful feeling that his aunt might lumber him with the job. He did not want it. He liked things exactly the way they were.

It so happened that Winston Harte, unlike other members of Emma's family, was not particularly ambitious. He did not crave power. He was not crippled by avarice. In fact he had more money than he knew what to do with. Grandfather Winston, with Emma's guidance, advice, and help, had acquired an immense fortune, had thus ensured that neither his widow, Charlotte, nor his offspring would ever want for anything.

Young Winston was dedicated, hardworking, and he thrived in the world of newspapers where he was in his element. But he also enjoyed living. Long ago he had made a decision, and it was one he had never veered away from: He was not going to sacrifice personal happiness and a tranquil private life for a big-business career. Treadmills were decidedly not for him. He would always work diligently at his job, for he was not a parasite, but he also wanted a wife, a family, and a gracious style of living. Like his father, Randolph, Winston was very much at ease in the role of country gentleman. The pastoral scene held a special appeal for him, gave him a sense of renewal. His weekends away from the city were precious and recharged his batteries. He found horse riding, point-to-point meetings, village cricket, antiquing, and pottering around in the grounds of Beck House therapeutic and immensely satisfying. In short Winston Harte preferred a quiet, leisurely existence and he was determined to have it. Battles in boardrooms made him irritable, and he found them endlessly boring. That was why Paula continued to surprise him. And it was becoming increasingly apparent to Winston that she was indeed cast in the same mold as her grandmother. Both women relished corporate skirmishing. It seemed to him that business, power, and winning hands down over a business ' adversary were narcotics to them. When Emma had wanted-him to be Paula's backup in negotiations with Aire, he had swiftly demurred and suggested that she send Paula in alone. His aunt had readily agreed, to his considerable relief.

Oh what the hell, he thought, becoming impatient with himself. I'm not going to spend the entire weekend worrying about Jim Fairley's intentions. I'll thrash it out with him next week, once the plans for taking over Aire Communications have been put into operation. Pushing business matters to the back of his mind, he rang his father at Allington Hall and chatted with him for a good twenty minutes. He then dialed Allison Ridley, his current girlfriend. ,He felt a rush of warmth when he heard her voice, and she sounded equally pleased to hear his. He confirmed that he and Shane would be at her dinner party the following evening, made plans with her for Sunday, and finally dashed upstairs to change.

Ten minutes later, wearing comfortable corduroys, a heavy wool sweater, Wellington boots, and an old raincoat, Winston meandered through the dining room and out onto the flagged terrace .overlooking the fish pond. The sky had brightened after the brief shower. The trees and shrubs and lawns appeared to shimmer with dewy greenness in the lovely late afternoon light which brought a soft incandescent glow to the fading blue of the sky. The scent of rain and damp grass and wet earth and growing things pervaded the air, and it was a smell Winston loved. He stood on the terrace for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, relaxing and shedding the rest of his business worries; then he ran lightly down the steps into the gardens. He hurried in the direction of the beck, wanting to satisfy himself that the condition of the banks had not deteriorated after the recent shower.

Chapter Seven

Edwina had arrived.

Emma was aware that her eldest daughter was sitting downstairs in the library, having a drink and recovering from her journey from Manchester Airport. In the last few minutes, first Hilda then Emily had been up to see her, to pass on this news.

Well, there's no time like the present, Emma murmured as she finished dressing in readiness for her dinner date with Blackie and Shane. Putting off the inevitable is not only foolish, it frays the nerves. There's a time bomb ticking inside Edwina, and I'd better defuse it before the weekend begins.

Nodding to herself, glad she had stopped wavering, Emma fastened a pearl choker around her throat, glanced at herself in the mirror, picked up her evening bag and sable jacket, and hurried out.

She descended the long winding staircase at a slower pace, thinking about the things she would say, how she would handle Edwina. Emma had an aversion to confrontation and conflict, preferred to move in roundabout ways and often with stealth to accomplish her ends. Accommodation and compromise had been, and still were, her strong suits, both in business and personal matters. But now, as she approached the library, she recognized there was only one thing she could do: tackle Edwina head on.

Her quick, light step faltered as she walked through the vast Stone Hall, and dismay flew to the surface as she thought of doing battle. But Anthony's happiness was at stake, and therefore Edwina had to be dealt with before she made serious trouble for him, .for everyone in fact. Emma took a deep breath, then continued across the hall, her step now ringing with new determination, her manner resolute.

The library door was partially open, and Emma paused for a moment before going in, one hand resting on the door jamb as she observed Edwina sitting in the wing chair in front of the fire. Only one lamp had been turned on, and the light in the rest of the room was gloomy. Suddenly a log spurted and flared up the chimney, the lambent flames illuminating the shadowed face, bringing it into sharper focus. Emma blinked, momentarily startled. From this distance her daughter was the spitting image of Adele Fairley . . . the same silvery blond hair, the delicate yet clearly defined profile, the shoulders hunched in concentration. How often had she seen Adele sitting like that beside the fire in her bedroom at Fairley Hall, staring into the distance, lost in her thoughts. But whereas Adele had not lived to see her thirty-eighth year, Edwina was sixty-three and her beauty had never been as ethereal and as heart stopping as Adele's once was. So Emma knew this image was part illusion; still the resemblance was there, had been there since Edwina's birth, and she had always been more of a Fairley than a Harte in many respects.

Clearing her throat, Emma said, "Good evening, Edwina," and bustled forward with briskness, not wanting her to know she had been watching her from the doorway.

Her daughter started in surprise and swung her head, straightening up in the chair as she did. "Hello, Mother," she replied in a formal voice that rang with coldness.

Emma paid no attention to the tone, accustomed to it by now. It had not changed much over the years. She deposited her jacket and bag on a chair, then proceeded to the fireplace, turning on several lamps as she walked past them. "I see you have
a drink," she began, seating herself in the other wing chair. "Does it need refreshing?"

"Not at the moment, thank you."

"How are you?" Emma asked pleasantly.

"I'm all right, I suppose." Edwina eyed her mother. "There's no need to ask how you are. You're positively blooming."

Emma smiled faintly. Sitting back, she crossed her legs,

and said, "I'm afraid I won't be here for dinner after all. I have to go out. A last minute—"

"Business as usual, I've no doubt," Edwina sniffed scornfully, giving her an unfriendly look.

Emma winced but suppressed her annoyance. Edwina's rudeness and sneering manner were generally inflammatory to Emma, but tonight she was determined to overlook her daughter's unwarranted attitude toward her. You don't catch flies with vinegar, she thought dryly, and so she would continue to be pleasant and diplomatic, no matter what. Studying Edwina's face, she at once noticed the tiredness of the drooping mouth, the weary lines around her silver-gray eyes which swam with sadness. Edwina had lost weight, and she seemed nervous, anxious even; and certainly the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, usually filled with her own importance, was not quite so smug this evening. It was apparent she was besieged by troubles.

Emma felt a stab of pity for her, and this was such an unprecedented feeling and so unexpected that she was a little amazed at herself. Poor Edwina. She is truly miserable and frightened, but she does bring it on herself, I'm afraid, Emma thought. If only I could make her see this, get her to change her ways. Then, becoming aware that she was being looked over as carefully as she was scrutinizing, Emma said, "You're staring at me, Edwina. Is there something wrong with my appearance?"

'The frock, Mother," Edwina replied without a moment's hesitation. "It's a little young for you, isn't it?"

Emma stiffened and wondered if_her charitable feelings had been misplaced. Edwina was intent on being obnoxious. Then she relaxed her muscles and laughed a gay, dismissive laugh, resolved not to let Edwina get her goat. When she spoke, her voice was even. "I like red," she said. "It's lively. What color would you like me to wear? Black? I'm'not dead yet, you know; and while we're on the subject of clothes, why do you insist on wearing those awful lumpy tweeds?" Not waiting for a reply, she added, "You have a lovely figure, Edwina. You should show it off more."

Edwina let this small compliment slide by her. She asked herself why she had ever accepted Jim Fairley's invitation or agreed to stay here at Pennistone Royal. She must be insane to expose herself to her mother in this way.

Emma compressed her lips, her eyes narrowing as they weighed Edwina speculatively. She said with the utmost care, "I'd like to talk to you about Anthony."

This statement jolted Edwina out of her introspection; swinging to face Emma, she exclaimed, "Oh no, Mother! When Emily said you'd be coming down to see me, I suspected as much. However, I refuse to discuss my son with you. You're manipulative and controlling."

"And you, Edwina, are beginning to sound like a broken record," Emma remarked. "I'm tired of hearing that accusa- . tion from you. I'm also fed up with your continual sniping. It's impossible to have a decent conversation with you about anything. You're defensive and hostile."

Strong as these words were, Emma's tone had been mild, and her face was devoid of emotion as she pushed herself up and out of the chair. She went to the William and Mary chest in the corner, poured herself a small-glass of sherry, then resumed her position in front of the fire. She sat holding her drink, a reflective light in her eyes. After a long moment, she said, "I am an old woman. A very old woman, really. Although I realize there will never be total peace in this family of mine, I would like a bit of tranquility for the rest of my life if that's possible. And so I'm prepared to forget a lot of the things you've said and done, Edwina, because I've come to the conclusion it's about time you and I buried the hatchet. I think we should try to be friends."

Edwina gaped at her in astonishment, wondering if she was dreaming. She had hardly expected to hear these words from her mother. She finally managed, "Why me? Why not any of the others? Or are you planning to give the same little speech to them this weekend?"

"I don't believe they've been invited. And if they had, I would hope they'd have enough sense not to come. I don't have much time for any of them."

"And you do for me?" Edwina asked incredulously, mentally thrown off.balance by her mother's conciliatory gesture.

"Let's put it this way, I think you were the least guilty in that ridiculous plot against me last year. I know now that you were coerced to a certain extent. You never were very devious, avaricious, or venal, Edwina. Also I do regret our estrangement over the years. We should have made up long ago, I see that now." Emma genuinely meant this, but she was also motivated by another factor: Anthony. Emma was convinced that • only by winning Edwina over to her side

could she hope to influence her, get her to adopt a more reasonable attitude toward her son. So she said again, "I do think we should give it a try. What do we have to lose? And if we can't be real friends, perhaps we can have an amicable relationship at the very least."

"I don't think so, Mother."

Emma exhaled wearily. "I am saddened for you, Edwina, I really am. You threw away one of the most important things in your life, but—"

"What was that?"

"My love for you."

"Oh come off it. Mother," Edwina said with a sneer, looking down her nose at Emma. "You never loved me."

"Yes, I did."

"I don't believe this conversation!" Edwina exclaimed, shifting in her chair. She took a gulp of her Scotch, then brought the glass down on the Georgian side table with a bang. "You're incredible, Mother. You sit there making these extraordinary statements and expecting me to swallow them whole. That's the joke of the century. I might be stupid, but I'm not that stupid." She leaned forward, staring hard at Emma, her eyes like chips of gray ice. "What about you? My God, it was you who threw me away when I was a baby."

Emma brought herself up in the chair with enormous dignity and her face was formidable, her eyes steely as she said, "/ did not. And don't you ever dare say that to me again. Ever, do you hear? You know that I put you in your Aunt Freda's care because I had to work like a drudge to support you. But we've gone through this enough times in .the past, and you'll think what you want, I suppose. In the meantime I have no intention of being sidetracked from what I have to say to you, just because you have the need to dredge up all your old grudges against me."

Edwina opened her mouth, but Emma shook her head. "No, let me finish," she insisted, her green eyes holding Edwina's sharply. "I don't want you to make the same mistake twice in your life. I don't want you to throw Anthony's love away as you did mine. And you're in grave danger of doing so." She sat back, hoping her words would sink in, would have some effect.

"I have never heard anything quite so ridiculous," Edwina snorted, assuming a haughty expression.

"It's the truth nevertheless."

"What do you know about my relationship with my son!"

"A great deal. But despite his love for you, which is considerable, you are hell-bent on driving a wedge between the two of you. Why only last night he told me how concerned he is about your relationship, and he looked pretty damn worried to me.'

Edwina lifted her head swiftly. "So he is here. When I phoned him at his London club last night, they said he'd already left. I couldn't imagine where he was. I had no idea he was coming to the christening. Is he here?"

This was asked with anxiousness, and Emma saw the eager light flickering in her daughter's eyes. She said,' "No, he's not."

"Where is he staying?"

Emma chose to ignore this question for the moment. She said, "Anthony can't understand why you're so opposed to his divorce. It seems you're making his life miserable, badgering him night and day to reconcile with Min. He is baffled and distressed, Edwina."

"So is poor Min! She's heartbroken, and she can't comprehend him or his behavior. Neither can I. He's upsetting our lives in the most disturbing way, creating havoc. I'm almost as distraught as she is."

"Well, that's understandable. No one likes divorce, nor the pain it involves. However, you must think of Anthony before anyone else. From what he tells me, he's been very unhappy for—"

"Not that unhappy, Mother" Edwina interrupted, her voice snippy and high-pitched with tension. "He and Min do have a lot in common, whatever he might have told you. Naturally, he's disappointed she hasn't had a child. On the other hand, they've only been married six years. She could still get pregnant. Min is perfect for him. And don't look at me like that, Mother, so very superior and knowing. It just so happens that I know my son better than you do. Anthony might have strength of character, as you're so fond of pointing out to me whenever you get the opportunity. Nonetheless he does have certain weaknesses." '

Edwina stopped, uncertain about continuing, then decided her mother might as well know the truth. "Sex, for one thing," she announced flatly, staring Emma down with a show of defiance. "He'll go for a pretty face every time. He got himself into the most awful scrapes with women before he married Min." Edwina shook her head and bit her lip, muttering in a low voice, "I don't know how much Min actually knows, but I'm aware that in the last couple of years Anthony has had several affairs and as usual with the wrong sort of women."

Emma was not unduly surprised by this bit of information, nor was she particularly interested, and she did not rise to the bait. Instead she gave Edwina a curious look and asked, "What exactly do you mean by the wrong sort of women?"

"You know very well what I mean, Mother. Unsuitable females with no background or breeding. A man in Anthony's position, a peer of the realm with enormous responsibilities, should have a wife who comes from the aristocracy, his own class, who understands his way of life."

Stifling her amusement at Edwina's hidebound snobbery, Emma said, "Oh for God's sake, stop talking like a Victorian dowager. -We're living in the twenty-first century—well almost. Your views are outdated, my dear."

"I might have known you'd say something like that," 'Edwina replied in a snooty voice. "I must admit, you constantly surprise me, Mother. For a woman of your immense wealth and power, you are awfully careless about certain things. Background is one of them."

Emma chuckled and sipped her sherry, and her eyes twinkled over the rim of the glass. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," she said and.chuckled again.

Edwina's face colored, and then, wrinkling her nose in a gesture of distaste, she said, "I dread to think of who he'll end up with if this divorce ever goes through."

"Oh, it's going through all right," Emma said in her softest tone. "I think you would be wise to accept that. Immediately, It's a fact of life you cannot change."

"We'll see about that. Min has to agree before he can do anything."

"But, my dear Edwina, she has agreed,"

Edwina was shocked, and she stared at her mother through horrified eyes, trying to grasp these words. For a split second she %vas disbelieving, and then with a sinking heart she acknowledged that her mother spoke the truth. Whatever else she was, Emma Harte was not a liar. Furthermore her information was always reliable, deadly accurate. Edwina finally stammered, "But. . . but. . ." Her voice let her down, and she was unable to continue. She re'ached for her glass with a shaking hand and then put it back on the table without • drinking from it. Slowly she said, "But Min didn't say anything to me last night when we had dinner. How very strange. We've always been close. Why, she's been like a daughter to me. I wonder why she didn't confide in me. She always has in the past." Edwina's face was a picture of dismay as she pondered Min's extraordinary behavior and her very perplexing reticence.

For the first time, with a sudden flash of insight, Emma understood why her daughter was so frantic. She was obviously on intimate terms with Min, happy in the relationship. Yes, she was comfortable, secure, and safe with her daughter-in-law. Anthony, in upsetting the matrimonial applecart, had put his mother's world in jeopardy, or at least so Edwina believed. She was petrified at the thought of change, of a new woman in her son s life, who might not accept her quite as readily as Min had, who might even alienate her son from her.

Leaning toward Edwina, Emma said with more gentleness than usual, "Perhaps Min was afraid to tell you, afraid of distressing you further. Look here, you mustn't feel threatened by this divorce. It's not going to change your life that much, and I'm sure Anthony won't object if you remain friendly with Min." She attempted a light laugh. "And after all, Anthony is getting a divorce from Min, not from you, Edwina. He would never do anything to hurt you," she placated.

"He already has. His behavior is unforgivable." Edwina's voice was harsh and unrelenting, and her face flooded with bitterness.

Emma drew back, and the irritation she had been suppressing suddenly rose up in her. Her mouth curved down in a tight line, and her eyes turned cold. "You're a selfish woman, Edwina," she admonished. "You're not thinking of Anthony; you're only concerned with yourself. You claim your son is the center of your life—well, if he is, you have a damn poor way of showing it. He needs your love and support at a difficult time like this, not your animosity." Emma threw her a condemning stare. "I don't understand you. There's far too much resentment and hostility in you, for everyone, not only me. I can't imagine why. You've had a good life, your marriage was happy—at least I presume it was. I know Jeremy adored you, and I always thought you
loved him." Her glance remained fixed on Edwina. "I hope to God you did love him, for your ovn sake. Yet despite all the wonderful things life has given you, you are filled with an all-consuming anger. Please turn away from it, put this bitterness out of your heart once and for all."

Edwina remained engulfed in silence, her expression as obdurate as ever, and Emma went on, "Trust your son, trust his judgment. I certainly do. You're knocking your head against a brick wall fighting this divorce. You can't possibly win. In fact you'll end up the loser. You'll drive Anthony away forever." She searched her daughter's face, seeking a sign of softening on her part, but it was still closed and unyielding.

Sighing to herself, Emma thought: I give up. I'll never get through to her. And then she felt compelled to make one last stab at convincing her to change her views. She cautioned gravely, "You'll end up a lonely old woman. I can't believe you would want that to happen. And if you think I have an axe to grind, remember I have nothing to gain. Very genuinely, Edwina, I simply want to prevent you from making the most terrible mistake."

Although Edwina was unresponsive, sat huddled in the chair, avoiding her mother's penetrating eyes, she had been listening attentively for the last few minutes and digesting Emma's words. They had struck home, Emma's belief to the contrary. Now, in ihe inner recesses of Edwina's mind, something stirred. It was a dim awareness that she had been wrong. Suddenly, discomfort with herself overwhelmed her, and she felt guilty about Anthony. She had been selfish, more selfish than she had realized until this moment. It was true that she loved Min like the daughter she had never had, and she dreaded the thought of losing her. But she dreaded losing her son more. And that had already begun to happen.

Edwina did not have much insight, nor was she a clever woman, but she was not without a certain intelligence, and this now told her that Anthony had turned to his grandmother in desperation, had confided in Emma instead of her. Resentment and jealousy, her worst traits, flared within her at the thought of this betrayal on her son's part. And then, with a wisdom uncommon for her, she put aside these feelings. Anthony had not really been treacherous or disloyal. It was all her fault. She was driving him away from her, as her mother had pointed out. Emma was being sincere in trying to bridge the rift rapidly developing between herself and her son. Emma did want them to remain close—that seemed obvious if she considered her words dispassionately and with fairness. This admission astonished Edwina, and against her volition she experienced a feeling of gratitude to her mother for making this effort on her behalf.

Edwina spoke slowly in a muted voice. "It's been a shock— the divorce, I mean. But you're right, Mother. I must think of Anthony first. Yes, it's his happiness that counts."

For the first time in her life, Edwina found herself turning to Emma for help. Her anger and bitterness now somewhat diffused, she asked softly, "What do you think I should do, Mother? He must be very angry with me."

Believing that her attempts to drill some common sense into Edwina had had no effect whatsoever, Emma was a bit taken aback by this unanticipated reversal. Rapidly regrouping her thoughts, she said, "No, he's not angry. Hurt perhaps, worried even. He loves you very much, you know, and the last thing he wants is a permanent split between you." Emma half smiled. "You asked me what you should do. Why, Edwina, I think you should tell him exactly what you've just told me . . . that his happiness is the most important thing to you and that he has your blessing, whatever he plans to do with his life."

"I will." Edwina cried. "I must." She gazed at Emma, for once without rancor, and added, 'There's something else." She swallowed, finished in a strangled voice, "Thank you, . Mother. Thank you for trying to help."

Emma nodded and glanced away. Her face was calm, but she was filling with uneasiness. I have to tell her about Sally, she thought. If I avoid revealing his involvement with the girl, holy hell will break loose tomorrow. Everything I've accomplished in the last half hour will be swept away by Edwina's wrath when she sees them together. This way, shell have time to sleep on her rage, perhaps put it behind her. When she's calm, she'll surely recognize she cannot live her son's life for him.

Gathering her strength, Emma said, "I have something further to say to you, Edwina, and I want you to hear me out before you make any comment."

Edwina frowned. "What is it?" she asked nervously, clasping her hands together in her lap. Emma was silent, but her face was readable for a change. It telegraphed trouble to Edwina. Steeling herself for what she somehow knew would be a body blow, she nodded for her mother to proceed.

Emma said, "Anthony is in love with another woman. It's Sally . . . Sally Harte. Now, Edwina, I—"

"Oh no!" Edwina cried, aghast. Her face had paled, and she gripped the arms of the chair to steady herself.

"I asked you to hear me out. You just said your son's happiness was the only thing that matters. I trust you really meant that. He intends to marry Sally when he is free to do so, and you are—"

Again Edwina interrupted. "And you said you had no axe to grind!"

"I don't," Emma declared. "And if you think I've encouraged them, you're mistaken. I was aware he'd taken her out several times, when he'd been in Yorkshire. I don't deny that. But I hadn't paid much attention. Anyway, it seems they are seriously involved. Also, Anthony came to announce his plans to me, not to ask my permission to marry my great-niece. Furthermore I gather he took the same stance with Randolph, told him he was going to marry his daughter, and without so much as a 'by your leave.' Randolph can be old-fashioned at times, and his nose was considerably out of joint when we spoke late last night. But I soon put him straight."

Moving to the edge of the chair, the fuming Edwina let her furious glance roam over Emma. She examined that old and wrinkled face minutely, looking for signs of duplicity and cunning. But they were absent, and the hooded green eyes were clear, guileless. Then without warning, a vivid picture of Sally Harte flew into Edwina's twisting mind. They had run into each other nine months ago, at the exhibition of Sally's paintings at the Royal Academy. She had sought Edwina out actually and had been charming, very friendly. At the time Edwina had thought that Sally had grown up to become one of the most beautiful women she had ever laid eyes on. A Harte though, through and through, with her grandfather Winston's arresting looks, his carefree blue eyes, his dark windblown hair.

Edwina snuffed out the beautiful yet nevertheless disturbing image of Sally Harte and concentrated her attention on the old woman sitting opposite her, who in turn was observing her acutely and with sternness. Always ready and willing to brand her mother a manipulator, a schemer who contrived to control them and run all of their lives, Edwina decided that in this instance Emma Harte had indeed been an innocent bystander. As much as she wanted to blame her for this . . . this disaster, she could not. She had the most dreadful conviction that it was her son^ doing and his alone. Anthony would be unable to resist that lovely, laughing, bewitching face, which she had been so struck by herself. It was his pattern, after all ... falling for lovely features and a shapely figure. Yes, once again Anthony had managed to get himself involved with the wrong sort of woman
and all because of sex.

With a little shiver, Edwina drew herself up and said in a clipped voice, "Well, Mother, I must admit you've convinced me that you've not been a party to this unfortunate relationship. I give you the benefit of the doubt."

"Thanks a lot," Emma said.

"Nonetheless," Edwina continued purposefully, her face set, "I must voice my disapproval of this match, or I should say mismatch, to my son. Sally is not cut out to be his wife. She is most unsuitable. For one thing, she is dedicated to her career. Her painting will always come first with her. Consequently she most certainly won't fit into his life at Clonloughlin, a life that revolves around the estate, the local gentry, and their country pursuits. He is making a terrible mistake, one he will live to regret for the rest of his 'life. So, therefore, I intend to put a stop to this affair at once."

How could I have ever given birth to such a pig-headed fool? Emma asked herself. She stood up and said, with great firmness, her manner conclusive, "I must leave. Shane will be here any minute. But before I go, I have two statements to make, and I want you to listen most carefully. The first concerns Sally. You cannot point a finger at her, since she is beyond reproach and her reputation is impeccable in every sense. As for her career, well, she can just as easily paint at Clonloughlin as she can here. I might also remind you, silly snob that you are, that she is not only accepted by those ridiculous nitwits in so-called high society, whom you have the desire to kowtow to constantly, but is assiduously courted by them. Thank God she has more sense than you and hasn't fallen for all that worthless, highfalutin claptrap."

"As usual, you're being insulting, Mother," Edwina snapped.

Emma shook her silvered head disbelievingly, her lips pursing. Trust Edwina "to interrupt a serious conversation because her sensibilities were offended. She said with a small,

very cold smile, "Old people believe that age gives them the license to say exactly what they think, without being concerned that they may be giving offense. I don't mince my words these days, Edwina, I speak the truth. And I will continue to do so until the day I die. Anything else is a waste of time. But getting back to Sally, I would like to remind you that she is an artist of some repute. Also, in case you'd forgotten, she is an heiress in her own right, since my brother Winston left his grandchildren a great fortune. Mind you, I'll give you your due; I know money isn't particularly interesting to you or Anthony, for that matter. Still that doesn't change the facts, and you re making yourself look ridiculous by saying she is unsuitable. Poppycock! Sally is ideal for him. And let's not dismiss their feelings for each other. They are in love, Edwina, and that's the most important consideration of all."

"Love? Sex, you mean," Edwina began and then stopped, seeing the look of disapproval in Emma's eyes. "Well, you are correct about one thing, Mother, money doesn't matter to the Dun vale family," Edwina finished, looking as if she had just smelled something rotten.

Emma said with cool authority, "Anthony is his own man, and for that I will be eternally grateful. He will do as he wishes. And if this relationship is a mistake, then it will be his own mistake to make. Not yours, not mine. Anthony is a man of thirty-three, not a snot-nosed boy in short pants. It would behoove you to stop treating him as such."

Abruptly Emma swung away from Edwina and crossed to the desk in front of the window. She stood behind it, regarding her daughter intently. "And so, my dear Edwina, if you do speak to Anthony, I suggest you restrict your conversation to motherly words of love ana concern for his well-being. And I want you to restrain yourself when he mentions Sally, as no doubt he will. I don't believe he will tolerate any criticism of her or his future plans."

A horn hooted outside the window, startling both women. Emma glanced over her shoulder, saw Shane getting out of his bright red Ferrari. Turning back to Edwina, she lifted the address book off the desk and waved it at her. "You will find Randolph's number in here. Anthony is staying at Allington Hall. Take my advice, call your son and make up with him." Emma paused and added with finality, "Before it is too late."

Edwina sat rigidly in the chair, and not one word passed her white and trembling mouth.

Emma gave her only a cursory glance as she passed the chair, picked up the jacket and evening bag, and left the library. Closing the door quietly behind her, she reassured herself she had tried her very best to solve this troublesome family problem and make friends with Edwina at the same time. But she and Edwina did not matter. They would live with their armed truce as they had always done. Only Anthony and Sally were important in the scheme of things.

Emma threw back her shoulders and drew herself to her full height, striking out across the Stone Hall to the front door. And she hoped against hope that Edwina would come to her senses about her son and give him her blessing.

Blackie O'Neill had a plan.

Now this plan vastly entertained him whenever he thought about it, which had been frequently in the last few days. He was mostly amused because he had never come up with a plan in his entire life.'

It had always been Emma who had had a plan. When she had been a little snippet of a girl in patched clothes and worn-out button boots, there had been her Plan with a capital P. That had been a plan so grand it had left no room for doubt, and when she had set it finally in motion, it had carried her away from Fairley and out into the wide world to seek her fame and fortune. Later she had devised innumerable other plans—for her first shop, her second, and her third; then she had created plans to acquire the Gregson Warehouse, the Fairley mills, and yet another for the creation of the Lady Hamilton line of fashions with David Kallinski. And of course there had been her Building Plan, which she tended to pronounce as if this, too, were capitalized. He had been very much a part of that most grandiose plan of all, drawing the architectural blueprints and building her enormous store in Knightsbridge. And this great edifice still stood, a proud testament to her most extraordinary achievements.

Yes, his Emma had lived with one kind of plan or another for as long as he had known her, and each one had been put into operation with determination and carried through with consummate skill in her inimitable way. And with every success she would give him a tiny smile of cold triumph and say, "You see, I told you it would work." He would throw back his head and roar and congratulate her and insist they celebrate, and her face would soften, and he knew that she was giddy with excitement inside, even if she did not really want to show it.

But he had never made a plan before.

In fact almost everything that had happened to Blackie O'Neill in his long life had been by sheer happenstance.

When he had first come over from Ireland as a young spalpeen, to work on the Leeds canals with his Uncle Pat, he had never imagined in his wildest fantasies that he would become a millionaire .many times over. Oh, he had boasted that he was going to be a rich "toff" to young Emma when she had been a servant at Fairley Hall, but at that time it had seemed unlikely ever to come true. It had been something of an idle boast, and he had laughed at himself in secret. His boasting had proved not to be so idle after all.

Over the years Emma had ofen teased him and said that he had the luck of the Irish, and this was true in many respects. He had had to work hard; on the other hand he had also carried Lady Luck in his breast pocket, and great and good fortune had continually blessed him. There had been times of terrible sadness in his personal life and sorrow too. For one thing he had lost his lovely Laura far too young, but she had given him his son, and he considered Bryan to be his best bit of luck of all. As a child Bryan had been warm and loving, and they had stayed close, enjoyed a unique relationship to this day. Bryan had a shrewd, sharp brain, was inspired and fearless in business, a genius really, and together they had parlayed O'Neill Construction into one of the biggest and most important building companies in Europe. When Bryan's wife, Geraldine, had inherited two hotels from-her father, Leonard Ingham, it was Bryan who had had the foresight and brains to hang on to them. Those little hotels in Scarborough and Bridlington, catering to family holidaymakers, had become the nucleus for the great O'Neill chain, which was now an international concern and a public company trading on the London Stock Exchange.

But had Blackie planned all this? No, never. It had simply come about by chance, through the most marvelous serendipity. Of course he had been smart enough to recognize his train when it had come rolling through his station, and he had jumped on it with alacrity, and he had used every opportunity that presented itself to his advantage. In so doing he had, like Emma, created an empire and founded a dynasty of his own.

These thoughts ran through Blackie's head as he dressed for dinner, and he chuckled to himself from time to time as he contemplated his first Plan, also with a capital P. Not unnaturally it involved Emma, with whom he spent a great deal of time these days. He had decided to take her on a trip around the world. When he had first suggested this a few weeks ago, she had looked at him askance, scoffed at the idea, and told him she was far too busy and preoccupied with her affairs to go galavanting off on a holiday in foreign parts. His smooth Irish tongue and persuasive manner had seemingly had no effect. Nevertheless he had made up his mind to get his own way. After a great deal of thought and pacing of the floor racking his brains, he had devised a plan—and the key to it was Australia. Blackie knew that Emma secretly itched to go to Sydney, to see her grandson Philip McGill Amory, who was being trained to take over the vast McGill holdings. He was also aware that Emma had balked at the thought of the long and exhausting trip to the other side of the world, and she was still vacillating about going.

So he would take her, and they would travel in style.

Naturally she would be unable to resist his invitation when he explained how comfortable, luxurious, leisurely, and effortless their journey would be. First they would fly to New York and spend a week there before going to San Francisco for another week. Once they were rested and refreshed, they would hop over to Hong Kong and the Far East and slowly head to their final destination in easy stages.

And he fully intended to make sure she had a little fun on their peregrinations. Blackie could no longer count the times he had asked himself if Emma had ever really had any honest-to-goodness fun in her life. Perhaps becoming one of the richest women in the world had been her way of enjoying herself. On the other hand he was not sure how much pleasure she had derived from this consuming, backbreaking endeavor. In any event he was planning all sorts of entertaining diversions, and young Philip was the tempting morsel he would dangle in front of her nose; if he was not mistaken, the .trip would prove to be irresistible to her.

Blackie knotted his blue silk tie and stood away from the mirror, eyeing it critically.

It's sober enough, I am thinking, he muttered, kno%ving . Emma would make a sarcastic remark if he wore one of his gaudier numbers. Long, long ago Laura had curbed, at least to some extent, his exotic taste for colorful brocade waistcoats, elaborately tailored suits, and flashy jewelry; Emma had cured him completely. Well, almost. Occasionally Blackie could not resist the temptation to indulge himself in a few jazzy silk ties and handkerchiefs and ascots in florid patterns and brilliant colors, but he made certain never to wear them when he was seeing Emma. He reached for his dark blue jacket and put it on, smoothed the edge of his pristine white collar, and nodded at his reflection. I might be an old codger, but sure an' I feel like a young spalpeen tonight, he thought with another chuckle.

Snowy-haired though he was, Blackie's bright black eyes were still as merry and mischievous as' they had been when he was a young man in his prime, and his bulk and size were undiminished by age. He was in remarkable health and looked more like a man in his seventies than one who was eighty-three. His mind was alert, agile, and unimpaired, and senility was a foreign word to him in much the same way as it was' to Emma.

Pausing in the middle of the bedroom, he dwelled momentarily on the evening ahead, the business matter he would discuss with Emma. He was glad Shane and he had decided to broach the subject to her. Once that was out of the way and when they were alone, he would move gently into the conversation about the trip. It won't be easy, he told himself. You know she's the stubborn one. When he had first met Emma, he had recognized at once that she had the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter, and it had only grown more inflexible over the years.

A scene flashed, transporting him back to the past: 1906. A bitter cold January day. Emma sitting next to him on the tramcar going to Armley, looking impossibly beautiful in a new black wool coat and the green-and-black scarf and tam-o'-shanter he had given her for Christmas. The green tones in the tartan bringing out the green depths in her eyes, the black showing off the flawlessness of her alabaster skin.

What a pallor her face had held that Sunday. Nonetheless it had not marred her loveliness, he ruminated, remembering every detail of that afternoon so clearly. She had been sixteen and carrying Edwina, and oh how rigid she had been in her obstinacy. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion to maneuver her onto that tram. She had not wanted to go to Armley, nor to make the acquaintance of his dear friend, Laura Spencer. Still when the two girls had met, they had taken to each other instantly and were the closest of loving friends until the day poor Laura died. Yes, Emma's terrible burdens had eased once she had moved into Laura's snug little house, and he had experienced an enormous sense of relief knowing that Laura would mother her, watch over her. And he had won that day, as he fully intended to win with her now, sixty-three years later.

Opening the top drawer of the bureau at the other side of the room, he took out a small black leather jewel box, stared at it thoughtfully, and then slipped it in his pocket. Humming to himself, he strode out and went downstairs.

Blackie O'Neill still lived in the grand Georgian mansion he had built for himself at Harrogate in 1919. A handsome wide staircase, so beautifully designed it appeared to float, curved down into a charming circular entrance hall of lovely dimensions, where walls painted a rich apricot acted as a counterpoint to the crisp black-and-white marble floor. The square marble slabs had been set down at an angle so that they became diamond shapes, and they led the eye to the niches on either side of the front door. White marble statues of the Greek. goddesses Artemis and Hecate graced these niches and were highlighted by hidden spots. An elegant Sheraton console, inlaid with exotic fruitwoods, stood against one wall underneath a gilt Georgian mirror, and was flanked on either side by Sheraton chairs upholstered in apricot velvet. Illuminating the hall was a huge antique crystal-and-bronze-dore' chandelier which dropped down from the domed ceiling, and the setting had elegance without the slightest hint of ostentation.

Crossing the hall, Blackie went into the drawing room. Here a log fire burned cheerily in the Adam fireplace, and the silk-shaded lamps cast rafts of warming light onto the cool green walls, on the sofas and chairs covered in darker green

silk. Splendid paintings and Sheraton and Hepplewhite antiques added to the graciousness of the room, which exemplified Blackie's sense of style, color, and perspective in furniture and design.

He fussed with the bottle of champagne in the silver wine cooler, turning it several times, shifting the ice around; then he took a cigar from the humidor and went over to his favorite chair to wait. He had ,no sooner trimmed the cigar and lit it than he heard them in the hall. He put the cigar in the ashtray and rose.

"There you are, mavourneen," he cried, hurrying to meet Emma as she came into the room. There was a wide smile on his ruddy face as he exclaimed, "You're a sight for sore eyes." He hugged her tightly to his broad chest, held her away, and looked down at her. He smiled again, admiration shining in his eyes. "And aren't you my bonny colleen tonight."

Emma smiled back at him, love and warmth overflowing in her. "Thank you, Blackie dear. And I must admit, you don't look so bad yourself. That's a beautiful suit." Her eyes twinkled merrily as she ran a hand down his arm expertly. "Mmmm. Very nice cloth. It feels like a bit of my best worsted."

"It is, it is," Blackie said and winked at Shane, who was standing behind Emma. "Would I be wearing anything else now. But come, me darlin', and sit here and let me get you a glass of champagne."

Emma allowed him to guide her across the room to the sofa. She sat down, and a brow lifted. "Are we celebrating something?"

"No, no, not really. Unless it's reaching our grand old ages and being in such good health." He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and added, "Also I know you prefer wine to the stronger stuff." He glanced at Shane. "Would you do the honors, me boy? And make mine a drop of me good Irish."

"Right you are, Grandfather."

Blackie seated himself in the chair facing Emma, picked up his cigar, and puffed on it reflectively for a moment, then said to her, "And I expect you've had a busy day as usual. I'm beginning to wonder if you'll ever retire ... as you're constantly threatening to do."

"I don't suppose I ever will," Emma laughed. "You know very well I plan to go with my boots on."

Blackie shot her a chastising look. "Don't talk to me about

dying. I've no intention of doing that for a long time." He chuckled softly. "I've a lot more damage to do yet."

Emma laughed with him, and so did Shane, who carried their drinks over to them. He fetched his own, and they clinked glasses and toasted each other. Shane took a swallow of his Scotch and said, "Would you both excuse me for a few minutes. I have to phone Winston."

Emma said, "I hope you have better luck than I did. I was trying to get him for ages earlier. First the line was busy; then there was no answer."

Shane frowned. "Perhaps he'd slipped down to the village. Any message, Aunt Emma?"

"Tell him that we didn't—" Changing her mind, she broke off and shook her head. "Never mind, Shane. It's not important. I'll be seeing him tomorrow, and I'm sure we'll have a chance to chat at some point then."

When they were alone, Blackie reached across and took Emma's hand in his and stared deeply into her face. "It's grand to see you, me darlin'. I've missed you."

Emma's eyes danced. "Get along with you, you silly old thing. You just saw me the day before yesterday," she exclaimed, amusement surfacing. "Don't tell me you've forgotten our dinner at Pennistone."

"Of course I haven't. But it seems like a long time to me, caring about you the way I do." He patted her hand aflection-ately and sat back in his chair, giving her the fondest of looks. "And I meant it when I said you looked bonny, Emma, You're a real bobby dazzler in that dress; it's very flattering on you, me darlin' girl."

"Some girl! But thank you, I'm glad you like it," she answered with a smile of real pleasure. "My friend Ginette Spanier, at Balmain's, picked it out for me and had it shipped over from Paris last week. Mind you, Edwina was rather scathing earlier. She told me it was too young for me—the color, you know."

Blackie's expression altered radically. "She was just being catty, Emma. Edwina's got a chip on her shoulder the size of that old oak tree out yonder in my garden. She'll never change." He noticed the look of pain flit across Emma's face, and he frowned with concern for her, cursing her daughter under his breath. Edwina had always been troublesome. But then so had most of the others, and there were a couple of Emma's children whom he could quite cheerfully strangle with his bare hands. He cried heatedly, "I hope she's not been giving you a hard time!"

"No, not really."

She sounded unusually hesitant, and Blackie spotted this immediately, shook his marvelous white, leonine head, and exhaled in exasperation. "I'll never understand Jim. I don't know what prompted him to invite her. It was stupid on his part, if you ask me."

"Yes, and Paula was upset too, but I decided not to intervene. I thought it would look petty. But..." Emma shrugged, and, since she confided most things in Blackie these days, she told him about her conversation with Edwina, her attempts to reason with her daughter.

Blackie listened carefully, occasionally nodding, and when she had finished, he said in a low voice, "Well, I'm happy for Sally if this is what she wants. She's a lovely lass, and Anthony is a nice chap. Down-to-earth and not a bit stuck-up, which 'is more than I can say for that mother of his." He paused. Recollections s\vamped him. Slowly, he added, "She was most peculiar when she was growing up and never very nice to you, Emma. Always slighting you if I remember correctly, and believe me I do. I haven't forgotten how she used to show her preference for Joe Lowther, making it so. bloody obvious, too. She was a little bitch, and she hasn't changed. Please promise me you'll let this matter about Anthony rest. I don't'want you getting agitated because of Edwina. She's not worth it."

"Yes, you're right, and I promise." She smiled faintly. "Let's forget about Edwina. Where are you taking me to dinner? Shane was most mysterious when we were driving over here."

"Was he now, mavoumeen." Blackie grinned from ear to ear. 'To tell you the truth, Emma, I couldn't think of a nice enough place, so I told Mrs. Padgett to prepare dinner for us here. I know you like her home cooking, and she's rustled up a lovely bit of spring lamb. I told her to make new potatoes, Brussels sprouts and Yorkshire pudding—all your favorites. Now, me darlin',' how does that sound to you?"

"Delicious, and I'm glad we're not going out. It's much cozier here, and I do feel a bit tired."

His black eyes narrowed under his bushy brows as he examined her alertly. "Ah," he said softly, "so you're finally admitting it.
I do wish you wouldn't push yourself so hard. There's no need for it anymore, you know."

Dismissing this comment with an easy smile, Emma leaned closer to him. No longer able to suppress her curiosity, she asked eagerly, "What do you want my advice about? You sounded cagey on the phone this morning."

"I didn't mean to, darlin'." He sipped his whiskey, puffed away for a moment, and continued, "But I'd prefer to wait until Shane comes back if you don't mind, since it concerns him."

"What concerns me?" Shane asked from the doorway. He strolled into the room, his drink in his hand.

"The business matter I want to discuss with Emma."

"I'll say it concerns me!" Shane exclaimed rather forcefully. "It was my idea in the first place." Seating himself on the sofa next to Emma, he settled against the cushions, crossed his legs, and turned to her. "Winston's sorry he missed your calls. He was'out in the garden earlier, worrying about the beck flooding. It's dangerously near to it apparently." His eyes swiveled to his grandfather. "I just rang Derek and asked him to get a couple of our men over to Beck House tomorrow, to check things out."

"Aye, that's a good idea. But they'll have to shore up those banks a lot better than they did last year," Blackie remarked pointedly. "Now, if you'd both listened to me, it would have been done right in the first place. Let me explain a couple of things." He commenced to do so, not giving Shane a chance to respond. And then for the next couple of minutes they discussed various methods of reinforcement. They sounded for all the world like a couple of builders about to embark on a major construction project, and Blackie was most vociferous in his opinions, which tickled Emma. He was still a bricklayer at heart.

But she soon lost interest in their somewhat technical conversation. She had become extremely conscious of Shane's presence next to her. His bulk did more than fill the sofa, it commandeered it. For the first time in years she began to regard him through newly perceptive and objective eyes, not as an old family friend, but as a younger woman—a stranger— might. How marvelous looking he was tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored gray suit and a pale-blue voile shirt with a silver-gray silk tie. He had inherited his grandfather's large frame, his broad sweeping back and powerful shoulders, along with Blackie's wavy black hair and those sparkling eyes so like jet. His complexion was dark too, but his light mahogany tan came from sun, garnered on the ski slopes of Switzerland or a lazy Caribbean beach, not from toiling long hours as a navvy out in the open, as his grandfather had once done.

His appearance was much like Blackie's had been at his age. The face is different, though; she thought, sneaking another surreptitious look at him, but he does have Blackie's distinctive cleft in his chin, the same dimples when he smiles. And that long upper lip betrays his Celtic origins. I bet he's broken many a heart already, she added silently with an inward smile of amusement. Then she experienced a tiny pang of sadness .for Sarah. Easy to understand why the girl had a crush on him. He was a splendid young man who exuded virility and manliness, and there was a unique, warmth and gentleness in him. That was the most devastating of combinations, and she knew only too well about men like Shane O'Neill. She had loved such a man herself, had had her heart broken by him once when she had been young and vulnerable and very much in love. But he had repaired her broken heart, had given her immeasurable happiness and fulfillment in the end. Yes, Paul McGill had had the same kind of potency and fatal charm that Shane O'Neill possessed in some abundance.

Blackie said, "Daydreaming, Emma darlin'."

She shifted her position on the sofa and smiled lightly. "No, I'm patiently waiting for you two to finish discussing that damn beck, so we can get down to brass tacks about the business you want my advice on."

"Why yes, of course, it's wasting time we are," he admitted, his manner more genial than ever. In fact conviviality seemed to spill out of Blackie tonight, and he beamed first at Emma,- then at Shane. "Now, me boy," he said, "please top up Emma's glass with a drop more of that bubbly, and give me a refill, and we'll settle in for a nice little chat."

And this they did after Shane had attended to their drinks.

It was Shane who began, concentrating his attention entirely on Emma, his tone as sober as his face had become. He spoke rapidly but clearly, as he generally did in business, plunging in without preamble. Emma appreciated his directness, and she in turn gave him all of her attention.

Shane said, "We've been wanting to build or acquire a hotel in New York for several years. Dad and I have both spent a great deal of time scouting out possibilities. Recently we found the ideal place. It's a residential hotel in the East Sixties. Old-fashioned, of course, and the interiors are in need of considerable remodeling, rebuilding actually. That's what we'll do—most likely. You see, we tendered a bid, it has been accepted, and we're buying the hotel. The papers are currently being drawn up."

"Congratulations, Shane, and you too, Blackie!" Emma looked from one to the other, her face bathed in genuine delight. "But how can I be of help to you? Why do you need to talk to me? I don't know a blessed thing about hotels, except whether or not they're comfortable and efficient."

"But you do know New York City, Emma," Blackie countered, leaning forward with intentness. 'That's why we need you."

"I'm not sure that I follow you—"

"We need you to steer us in the right direction to the best people," Shane cut in, wanting to get to the crux of the matter. He pinned her with his bright black eyes. "It seems to me that you've made that city your own in so many different ways, so you must know what makes it tick. Or rather what makes its business and commerce tick." His generous mouth curved up into the cheekiest of grins. "We want to pick your brains and use your connections," he finished, regarding her carefully, his cheekiness still very much in evidence.

Amusement flickered in Emma's eyes. She had always liked Shane's style, his directness, his boyish impudence. She stifled a laugh and said, "I see. Do continue."

"Right," Shane replied, all seriousness again. "Look, we're a foreign corporation, and in my opinion that city's as tight as a drum. We can't go in cold . . . well, we could, but we'd have a tough time. I'm sure we'd be resented. We need advisers—the proper advisers—and some good connections. Political connections for one thing. And we'll need help with the unions, with any number of things. I'm sure you of all people understand what I'm talking about, Aunt Emma. So where do we go? Who do we go to?"

Emma's mind had been working with its usual swiftness and acuity, and she saw the sense in Shane's words. He had analyzed the situation most shrewdly. She told him this, went on without hesitation, "It would be unwise of you to start operating in New York without the most influential backing and support. You'll need everybody in your comer, and the only way you'll get them in it is through friends. Good friends with clout, I think I can help."

"I knew if anybody could, it would be you. Thanks, Aunt Emma," Shane said, and she saw him visibly relaxing.

"Yes, we're very grateful, me darlin'," Blackie added, pushing himself up out of the chair. He took his drink to the console behind the sofa, plopped in extra ice, added more water to his whiskey, and said, "Well, go on, Shane, as Emma asked." He touched her shoulder lightly, lovingly. Emma glanced behind her, questions on her face. Blackie chuckled. "Oh yes, there's more," he said and ambled back to his chair by the fireside.

Shane said, "We have a solid, well-established law firm representing us in the purchase of the hotel—they're specialists in real estate. However, I feel we are going to need additional representation for other business matters. I'd like to find a really prestigious law firm that has political savvy and a few gilt-edged connections. Any suggestions about that?'

There was a moment of thoughtfulness before Emma said, "Yes, of course. I could send you to my lawyers and to any number of people who would be of use to you. But I've been thinking hard whilst I've been listening, and I believe there is one person who would be of more assistance to you than me and my lawyers and my friends put together. His name is Ross Nelson. He's a banker—head of a private bank in fact. He has the very best connections in New York, throughout the States for that matter. I'm sure he'll be able to recommend the law firm most qualified for your purposes and assist you in a variety of other ways."

"But will he do it?" Shane asked, doubt echoing.

"He will if J ask him," she said, giving Shane the benefit of a reassuring smile. "I can telephone him on Monday and explain everything. I hope I'll be able to enlist his help immediately. Would you like me to 3o that?"

"Yes, I would. We would." He swung his head to Blackie. "Wouldn't we, Grandfather?"

"Anything you say, my boy. This is your deal." Blackie tapped ash from his cigar, looked across at Emma. "That name Nelson rings a bell. Have I met him?"

"Why yes, I think you did once. It was some years ago, Blackie. Ross was over in England with his great-uncle, Daniel P. Nelson. Dan was a close friend and associate of Paul's,

if you recall. He's the fellow who wanted me to send Daisy over to the States during the war, to stay with him and his wife, Alicia. But as you know, I never wanted Daisy to be evacuated. Anyway, the Nelsons only had one child, Richard. The boy was killed in the Pacific. Dan was never quite the same after that. He made Ross his heir,, after his wife of course. Ross inherited controlling interest in the bank on Wall Street when Dan died, and God knows what else. Not millions. Zillions, I think. Daniel P. Nelson was one of the richest men in America, had tremendous power."

Shane was impressed, and this showed in his face. He asked quickly, "How old a man is Ross Nelson?"

"Oh he must be in his late thirties, early forties, not much more."

"Are you sure he won't mind helping us? I'd hate to think he would regard your request as an imposition. That kind of situation can create difficulties," Shane remarked. He was intrigued with Nelson, wanted to know more about him. He reached for his drink and took a swallow, observing Emma out of the corner of his eye.

Emma laughed quietly. "He owes me a few favors. And he won't think I'm imposing, I can assure you of that." She gave Shane a shrewd look through her narrowed green eyes. "Mind you, I know Ross, and he's going to expect something in return. Business, I'm sure, in one form or another. Actually, you might consider doing some of your investment banking with him and let his bank handle your affairs on that side of the Atlantic. You could do worse." There was a cynical edge to her voice as she finished, "There are two things you must remember, Shane . . . one hand always washes the other, and there's never anything free in this world. Especially in business."

Shane met her cool, concentrated gaze steadily. "I understand," he said softly. "And I learned long ago that anything for nothing is usually not worth having. As for Ross Nelson, I'll know how to show iriy appreciation—you have no worries there."

Blackie, who had been following this exchange with considerable interest, slapped his knee and laughed uproariously. "Ah, Emma, it's a spry one I've got me here." He shook In's head, and his benevolent smile expressed his love and pride. "There are no flies on you, my boy, I'm glad to see, and it won't be the same without you." A hint of sadness crept onto

his face, wiping away the laughter. "I know it's important ana necessary, but I hate to see you go away again and so quickly. It pains me, it truly does."

Emma put down her glass and stared at Shane. "When are you leaving, Shane?"

"I fly to New York on Monday morning. I'll be staying there for a good six months, maybe longer. I'll be supervising the rebuilding of the hotel in Manhattan and trotting down to the Caribbean every few weeks to check on our hotels in the islands."

"Sir months," she repeated in surprise. "That is a long time. We shall miss you." But perhaps it's just as well he won't be around for a while, she added under her breath, thinking of her granddaughter Sarah Lowther. Out of sight, out of mind. Or So she hoped.

Shane cut into her thoughts when he said, "I shall miss you too. Aunt Emma, and Grandfather, everyone in fact. But I'll 'be back almost before you can say Jack Robinson." He leaned into Emma and squeezed her arm. "And keep an eye on this lovable old scoundrel here. He's very dear to me."

"And to me too, Shane. Of course I'll look after him."

"Ah, and won't we. be taking care of each other now," Blackie announced, sounding extremely pleased with himself all of a sudden, thinking of his Plan with a capital P. "But then we've been doing that for half a century or more, and .it's a difficult habit to break, sure an' it is."

"I can imagine." Shane laughed, marveling at the two of them. What an extraordinary pair they were, and the love and friendship they felt for each other was a most enviable thing. Sighing under his breath, he reached for his Scotch, peered into the amber liquid, reflecting. After a swallow he turned to Emma. "But getting back to Ross Nelson, what kind of a chap is he?"

"Unusual in many ways," Emma said slowly, staring into space, as if visualizing Ross Nelson in her mind's eye. "Ross is deceptive. He has a certain charm, and he appears to be very friendly. On the surface. I've always thought there was an innate coldness in him and a curious kind of calculation, as if he stands apart from himself, watching the effect he has on people. There's a terrific ego there, especially when it comes to women. He's something of a ladies' man and has just been divorced for the second time. Not that this is significant. On the other hand it's frequently struck me that he might be unscrupulous ... in his private life."

She paused, brought her eyes to meet Shane's, and added, "But that has nothing to do with you or me. As far as business is concerned, I deem Ross to be trustworthy. You have no cause to worry in that respect. But be warned, he's clever, razor sharp, and he has the need to get his own way—that monumental ego rears up constantly."

"Quite a picture you've painted, Aunt Emma. Obviously I'll have to have my wits about me."

"That's always wise, Shane, whomever you're dealing with." She smiled faintly. "On the other hand you're going to Ross for advice, not pitting yourself against him in a business deal. You'll be able to handle Ross Nelson very nicely. In fact I think you'll get along with him just fine. Don't forget, he owes me a few favors, so he'll bend over backward to be cooperative and helpful."

"I know your judgment is never flawed," Shane replied. He rose, walked around the sofa to fix himself another drink, thinking of the characterization she had drawn in her precise, thumbnail sketch. He was anxious to meet the man. It was obvious that Nelson was going to be invaluable. And he was impatient to get the ball rolling with the New York hotel. He needed to submerge himself in business, to take his mind off troubling personal matters. Ross Nelson might possibly be a pain in the neck in his private life, but who cared about his philandering. As long as he was smart, shrewd, trustworthy, and willing to help, that was all that mattered.

Blackie's eyes flicked briefly to his grandson, and then settled on Emma. ."I'm not so sure I like the sound of this Ross Nelson fellow," he began.

Emma cut him off with a laugh. "My money's on Shane. He's a grown lad who knows how to take care of himself very well. Very well indeed, Blackie. I'll even go as far as to say that Ross Nelson might have met his match in Shane." This observation seemed to entertain her, and she continued to laugh.

Shane grinned but made no comment.

He was looking forward to meeting Mr. Ross Nelson more than ever. The banker would add spice to the New York venture.

Chapter Nine

They sat in front of the blazing fire in the library—just the two of them.

Blackie nursed a snifter of aged Napoleon cognac, and Emma sipped a cup of tea with lemon. He had poured her a small glass of Bonnie Prince Charlie, her favorite Drambuie liqueur, but it remained untouched on the Sheraton side table next to her chair.

They were quiet, lost in their diverse thoughts, relaxing after Mrs. Padgett's fine dinner. Shane had left, and, as much as they both loved him in their individual ways, they were content to have this time alone together.

The firelight flickered and danced across the bleached-pine-paneled walls, which had taken on a mellow amber cast in the warm roseate glow emanating from the hearth. In the garden beyond the French doors, the towering old oak creaked and rustled and swayed under the force of the wind that had turned into a roaring gale in the last hour. The door and the windows rattled, and the rain was flung against the glass in an unrelenting stream, beating a steady staccato rhythm, and it was difficult to see out through this curtain of falling water. But in the fine old room all was warmth, coziness and comfort. The logs crackled and hissed and spurted from time to time, and the grandfather clock, an ancient sentinel in the" corner, ticked away in accompaniment.

His eyes had been focused on her for a while.

In repose, as it was now, Emma's face was gentle, the firm jaw and determined chin and stern mouth softer, less forbid-, ding in the flattering light. Her hair held the luster of the purest silver, and she seemed to him to be a lovely dainty doll, sitting there so sedately, perfectly groomed and dressed as always, elegance and refinement apparent in every line of her slender body.

She had not changed really.

Oh he was aware that when the flames blazed more brightly, he would notice the wrinkles and the hooded lids and the faint brown spreckles of age on her hands. But he knew, deep in his soul, that she was still the same girl inside.

She would always be his wild young colleen of the moors, that little starveling creature he had come across early one morning in 1904 when she had been tramping so bravely to Fairley Hall to scrub and clean in order to earn a few miserable coppers to help her impoverished family. His destination had been the same place, for Squire Adam Fairley had hired him to do bricklaying at the Hall, and then he had stupidly gone and lost himself in the mist on those bleak and empty godforsaken hills ... so long ago . . . but not so long to him. He had never forgotten that day.

Blackie's gaze lingered on Emma.

He had loved this woman from the first moment he had met her and all the days of his life thereafter. He had been eighteen that day on the lonely moors, and she had been a fourteen-year-old waif, all skin and bones and huge emerald eyes, and she had touched his heart like no one else before or after and bound him to her forever without even trying.

Once he had asked her to marry him.

She, believing it was out of kindness and friendship and the goodness of his heart, had refused him. She had thanked him sweetly, her face wet with tears, and explained that she and the child she was carrying, by another man, would only be burdens to him. And she would not inflict such a terrible load on her dearest friend Blackie, she had said.

Eventually he had married Laura Spencer, and he had loved her well and true. And yet he had never stopped loving his bonny mavourneen, even though at times he was hard-pressed to explain that unique love to himself, or to articulate it to her or anyone else for that matter.

There was a time when he had half expected Emma to marry David Kallinski, but once again she had turned down a splendid, upright young man. Later she had confided the reason to him. She had not wanted to create trouble between David and his family, who were Jewish. Although Mrs. Kallinski was motherly toward her, Emma said she had long realized that as a gentile she would not be considered appropriate as a daughter-in-law by Janessa Kallinski, who was Orthodox and expected her son to marry in the faith.

Then one day Joe Lowther had come riding by, metaphorically speaking, and to Blackie's astonishment—and not inconsiderable bewilderment—Emma had matrimony with Joe. He had never been able to fully comprehend their union. In his opinion it was difficult, if not downright impossible, to hitch a racehorse and a cart horse to the same wagon. But Joe had been a kindly man, if plodding and dull and not particularly brilliant or engaging. Still he and Blackie had liked each other well enough and had gone off to fight a war together. And he had seen Joe Lowther killed in the muddy trenches of the bloody, battle-torn Somme and had wept real tears for him, for Joe had been too young a man to die. And he had never been able to talk about Joe's ghastly death, to tell her that he had seen Joe blown to smithereens. Only years later did he learn from Emma that she had married Joe, who adored her, to protect herself and her baby daughter Edwina from the Fairleys, after Gerald Fairley had attempted to rape her one night at her little shop in Armley. "It wasn't as calculating as it sounds," she had gone on, "I liked Joe, cared for him, and because he was a good man, I felt honor-bound to be a good wife." And she had been devoted, he knew that.

The second time he had wanted to marry Emma he had truly believed his timing was perfect, that he had every chance of being accepted, and he was buoyed up with soaring hopes and anticipation. It was a short while after the First World War when they were both widowed. In the end, though, uncertain of her true feelings for him, and filled with sudden nervousness about Emma's astonishing achievements in comparison to his own, he had lost his nerve and his tongue, and so he had not spoken up. Regrettably. And she had unexpectedly gone off and married Arthur Ainsley, a man not good enough to lick her boots, and had suffered all kinds of pain and humiliation at Ainsley's hands. Finally, in the 1920s, as he was biding his time and waiting for the propitious moment, Paul McGill had come back to England to claim her at last for himself.

And he had lost his chance again.

Now it was too late for them to marry. Yet in a sense they had something akin to marriage and just as good to his way of thinking . . . this friendship, this closeness, this total understanding. Yes, all were of immense and incalculable value. And Emma and he were perfectly attuned to each other in the twilight of their days, and what did the rest mean or matter at this stage in the game of life?

but he still had that ring ...

Much to his own surprise, Blackie had kept the engagement ring he had bought for Emma so long ago. There had never been another woman to give it to, at least not one he cared enough about; and for a reason he could not fathom, he had never wanted to sell it.

Tonight the ring had burned a hole in his pocket all through drinks and dinner, in much the same way his Plan with a capital P burned a hole in his head. Putting down his drink, he leaned closer to the hearth, lifted the poker, and shoved the logs around in the grate, wondering if it was finally the right time to give it to her. Why not?

He heard the rustle of silk and a sigh that was hardly audible.

"Did I startle you, Emma?"

"No, Blackie."

"I have something for you."

"You do. What is it?"

He reached into his pocket and brought out the box, sat holding it in his large hands.

Emma asked curiously, "Is it my birthday present?" and she gave him a warm little smile of obvious pleasure, laughter sparkling in her eyes.

"Oh no, indeed it's not. I intend to give you that on your birthday at the—" He curbed himself. The elaborate party he and Daisy were planning was very hush-hush and meant to be a big surprise for Emma. "You'll get your birthday gift at the end of the month, on the very day you're eighty," he improvised adroitly. "No, this is something I bought for you—" He had to laugh as he added, "Fifty years ago, believe it or not."

She threw him a startled look. "Fifty years! But why didn't you give it to me before now?"

"Ah, Emma, thereby hangs a long tale," he said and fell silent as memories came unbidden.

How beautiful she had looked that night, with her red hair piled high on her head in an elaborate plaited coil, wearing a superb white velvet gown, cut low and off the shoulders. Pinned to one of the small sleeves was the emerald bow he had had made for her thirtieth birthday, an exquisite replica of the cheap little green glass brooch he had given her when she was fifteen. She had been touched and delighted that he had not forgotten his old promise, made to her in the kitchen of Fairley Hall. But on that particular Christmas night, her elegant finery, with McGill's magnificent emeralds blazing on her ears, he had thought his emerald bow, costly though it had been, looked like a trumpery bauble in comparison to those earrings . . .

Growing impatient, Emma frowned and exclaimed, "Well, are you going to tell me the tale or not?"

He pushed the past to one side, flashed her a smile. "Do you remember that first party I gave here? It was Christmas—"

"Boxing Day night!" Emma cried, her face lighting up. "You had just completed this house, finished furnishing it with all the lovely Sheraton and Hepplewhite pieces you'd scoured the country to find. And you were so proud of what you'd created all by yourself. Of course I remember the party and very clearly. It was the year 1919."

Blackie nodded, glanced down at the box, continuing to finger it. He raised his head. Unabashed love shone on his craggy, wrinkled face, giving it a more youthful appearance. "I'd bought this for you earlier that week. I'd traveled down to London to choose it, gone to the finest jeweler, too. It was in the pocket of my tuxedo. I'd intended to give it to you at the party."

"But you never did . . . why not? What ever made you change your mind, Blackie?" She looked at him oddly, through eyes awash with perplexity.

"I'd decided to have a talk first—with Winston. Why, it was here, in this very room, as a matter of fact." He looked about him as if seeing that ancient scene being re-enacted in the shadows, seeing the ghost of Winston as he had been as a young man, lurking there. He cleared his throat, "Your brother and I talked about you, and—"

"What about me?"

"We discussed you and your business ventures. I was worried to death about you, Emma, distressed because of the way you had plunged into the commodities market and recklessly, or so I thought. I was concerned about your rapid expansion of the stores in the north, your determination to keep on building, acquiring other holdings. I believed you were overextending yourself, gambling—•"

"I've always been a gambler," she murmured softly. "In a way that's the secret of my success . . . being willing to take chances . . ." She left the rest unsaid. He surely knew it all by now.

"Aye," he agreed, "maybe it is. Anyway Winston explained that you'd stopped the commodities lark after making a fortune speculating, and he told me you were not in over your head. Just the opposite. He told me you were a millionairess. And as he talked and ever so proudly, I began to realize that you were a far, far bigger success than I'd ever dreamed, that you'd surpassed me, outstripped David Kallinski, left us both behind in business. It suddenly seemed to me that you were quite beyond my reach. That's why I never gave you this ring . . . You see Emma, I was going to ask you to marry me that night."

"Oh, Blackie, Blackie darling" was all she could manage to say, so stupefied was she. Tears pricked the back of Emma's eyes as a variety of emotions seized her with some force. Her love and friendship for him rose up in her to mingle with a terrible sadness and a sense of regret for Blackie, as she envisioned the pain he must have suffered then and afterward, perhaps. He had wanted her, and he had not said a word. That was his tragedy. At the party in 1919 she had believed Paul McGill was lost to her forever. How vulnerable and susceptible she would have been to her one true friend Blackie in her heartbreak, loneliness, and despair. And if he had been more courageous, how different their lives would have turned out. Her thoughts ran on endlessly. Why had she never suspected that he cared for her in that way . . . that he had marriage on his mind? She must have been blind or dense or too involved with business.

The silence between them drifted.

Blackie sat unmoving in the chair, staring into the fire, saying not a word, remembering so much himself. It's odd, he thought suddenly, how things which happened to me when I was a young man have an extraordinary vividness these days. More so than events of last week or even yesterday. I suspect that's part of growing old.

Emma was the first to rouse herself.

She said in a small, pained voice, "Were you trying to tell me a few minutes ago that my success put you off? Prevented you from proposing?" She studied that dear familiar face with infinite compassion, thinking of the years he had wasted, the happiness he had let slip through his Fingers, and all because of his love for her. A love unuttered.

Blackie nodded. "Aye, I suppose I am, mavoumeen. I decided, there and then, that you could never be weaned away from your business because it was very much a part of you, was you, really. In any event I lost my confidence. After all I wasn't
half as rich and successful as you in those days. I didn't think you'd have me. My nerve failed me. Yes, that's precisely what happened."

A deep sigh trickled out of Emma, and slowly she shook her head. "How foolish you were; my dearest, dearest friend."

Blackie gaped at her, his jaw slack with astonishment. "Are you saying that you would have married me, Emma Harte?" he asked, unable to keep the shock and incredulity out of his voice.

"Yes, I believe I would, Blackie O'Neill."

Now it was Blackie who began to shake his head, and he did so in wonderment, trying to absorb her words. For a few minutes he could not speak as old emotions took hold of him, surprising him with the strength of their impact.

At last he said, "It does me good to hear that, even so long afterward." His voice took on a quavering treble, as he added, "Perhaps it's just as well we didn't marry, Emma. I'd have been left high and dry, not to mention broken-hearted, when Paul swept you off your feet again."

"How can you say such a thing! What kind of woman do you think I am!" she cried, her indignation flaring as she jerked herself up in the chair and glared at him with such unprecedented ferocity he flinched. "I would never have hurt you! I've always loved you, cared about your well-being, and you know it. Apologize at once," she spluttered angrily and added as an afterthought,
"or I'll never speak to you again!"

He was so startled by her vehemence that he was speechless for a few seconds. Slowly a shamefaced look crept onto his face. He said in a most tender and placating voice, "It's sorry I am, Emma. I take back those words. I believe you. I don t think you would have left me for Paul. And that's not my ego talking. I know you . . . better than anyone does. No, you wouldn't have betrayed me, you wouldn't have given him the time of day if you'd been married to me. It's not in you to be cruel to someone you love, and then there's your morality and your loyalty and goodness and sense of responsibility. Those would have worked in my favor. Besides—" He gave her a boyish grin that brought his dimples out. "I would have made you happy."

"Yes, Blackie, I believe you would."

This was said rapidly, and there was a sudden urgency in her manner as she leaned forward anxiously, needing to clarify the past, to make him understand the reasons which had motivated her and Paul, quite aside from their great love. "Don't forget," she began, intent on jogging his memory, "my marriage to Arthur Ainsley was on the rocks long before 'Paul McGill returned to this country. I was on the verge of divorce when Paul showed up. Besides, and this is most important, Blackie, Paul wouldn't have intruded, wouldn't have sought me out if I'd been happily married. It was only because Frank had told him I was miserable and separated from Ainsley that he arrived on my doorstep."

She paused, settled back in the chair, and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "I know I would not have seen hide nor hair of Paul ever again if my life had been on an even keel. He told me that himself. He came searching for me because he was aware I was unhappy—and also available. He most certainly wouldn't have done that if I'd been married to you. Have you forgotten how much he liked and respected you?"

"No, I haven't. And you're correct in what you say . . . Yes, Paul was a fine and honorable man. I always had a lot of time for him."

Blackie now rose.

"Well," he said, "that's all water under an old and decrepit bridge, my girl. There's no point rehashing our troubles of half a century ago. And maybe it was meant to be . . ." He lifted his hands and shoulders in a brief shrug. ". . . exactly the way it is. But I would like you to have the ring. It's always been yours, you know."

He bent over her. She looked up at him and then at the black leather box in his hands. He lifted the lid, turned the box to her.

Emma gasped.

The ring was exquisite, throwing off the most brilliant prisms of light and sparkling with life and fire against the lack velvet. The central diamond was round, multifaceted, and very large, at least twenty carats, and it was surrounded by smaller stones which were equally as lovely and superbly cut, and these formed a circle at the base of the mounting.

Even Emma, accustomed to magnificent jewelry, was awestruck, and she found herself blinking, truly taken aback by its size and beauty. "It's stunning, Blackie," she said a im breathlessly, "and one of the most beautiful rings I've ever seen."

His joy at her words was evident. "It's an old setting, of course, the original, and perhaps it's even a bit outdated, But I didn't want to have it reset. Here, slip it on, mavourneen."

She shook her head. "No, you do it, my fine black Irishman." She offered him her left hand. "Put it on the third finger, next to my wedding ring."

He did so.

Emma held out her small, strong hand, her head on one side, admiring the ring glittering so brightly in the fire's glow. And then she glanced up at him, her expression unmistakably mischievous. "Are we finally, engaged to be married then?" she teased in a flirtatious voice and offered him a smile that was decidedly coy.

Blackie laughed with delight, hugely amused. He'd always enjoyed her sense of humor.

Bending closer to her, he kissed her cheek. "Let's just say we're engaged to be—to be the dearest and closest friends and companions for the rest of the time we have on this earth."

"Oh, Blackie, that's such a lovely thing to say, and thank you for my beautiful ring." She caught his hand and held on to it and pressed it tightly and looked up at him again; then she smiled that incomparable smile that filled her face with radiance. "My dear old friend, you're so very, very special to me," she said.

"As you are to me, my Emma."

He stepped away from her chair as if heading to his own, and then he paused and swung his white head. "I hope you're going to wear the ring," he remarked offhandedly, but his glance remained riveted intently on hers. "I sincerely hope you're not going to put it away in that safe of yours."

"Certainly not. How could you think such a thing. I'm never going to take it off... ever again."

He touched her shoulder and returned to his seat, smiling to himself. "I'm glad I gave you your ring, me darlin. I've thought about doing so many times, and I've often wondered what you'd say. I know I'm always accusing you of being a sentimentalist in your old age, but I do believe I've become a sentimental old man myself."

"And tell me, Blackie O'Neill, what's, wrong with sentiment? It's a pity there isn't more of it in this world," she said, her eyes unexpectedly moist. "It might be a better place to live in, for one thing.'

"Aye," was all he said.

After a short while Blackie cleared his throat and remarked, "Now, what about that little proposition of mine, Emma? This morning you said you were doubtful that it would work, but I can't agree."

"Do you know," she exclaimed brightly in an enthusiastic voice, "I was thinking about it again this afternoon. Emily's moved in with me, and it suddenly struck me that the only way I'll get a bit of peace and quiet is to accept your generous invitation."

"Then you'll come with me! Ah, me darlin', this news warms the cockles of me heart, sure an' it does." He beamed at her, happiness and excitement welling inside him. He lifted his brandy balloon high. "Come along, take a sip of your Bonnie Prince Charlie, Emma. This calls for a toast, it does indeed."

She held up her hand instead. "Wait a minute! I didn't actually say yes. I can't accept—at least not just yet. I am seriously thinking about the trip, but you'll have to give me a few more weeks to settle things, to adjust to the idea of being absent for several months."

Biting down on his disappointment, he said, "All right, I'll be patient. However, I will have to start making the arrangements soon, so please don't delay your answer for too long."

"I'll let you know as quickly as possible. I promise."

He sipped his cognac, savoring it, and slowly a sly gleam entered his eyes. He was wrapped in thought for a minute or two longer and said finally, "By the way, Emma, I've recently . made a plan, as no doubt you II be surprised to hear. I think of it as my Plan with a capital P, since it happens to be the first plan I've ever made." He was unable, to contain himself and let out a throaty chortle, and his eyes became merry and teasing. "Do you remember that first plan of yours?"

"Goodness me, I'd forgotten all about that.'

"I never did. And I even recall the day you confided it in me. Such a small slip of a thing you were, too, and I was most impressed. Anyway, if you've got a few minutes, I'd like to tell you about mine. It's a most marvelous plan, me darlin', even though I say so myself. And I'll bet my last quid it's going to intrigue you, sure an' I know it will."

Amusement touched her mouth. "I'd love to hear about your plan, Blackie dear."

He sat back expansively, nodding to himself, and began, "Well, it's like this. There is this woman I know, and she's the most stubborn creature I've met in all my bom days. It just so happens that this stubborn, contrary, maddening, but quite adorable woman has a grandson living in Australia. I know she wants to go and see him, and I thought it would be a wonderful treat for her if I took her out there to see him myself. And so I've made a very special plan, and this is how it goes ..."

Emily had fallen asleep on one of the huge sofas in the upstairs parlor.

To Emma, standing over her, she looked small and defenseless and innocent, wrapped in a white toweling robe and curled up in a ball against the pile of cushions. A feeling of infinite tenderness swept through Emma. She bent down and gently moved a strand of pale blond hair away from Emily's eyes and brushed her lips against the girl's smooth young cheek. She straightened up, wondering whether to awaken her or not, decided to get ready for bed herself first, and tiptoed into the adjoining bedroom.

Emma hung up her sable jacket, took off her pearl choker and matching earrings, and placed them on the dressing table. After removing her watch and the McGill emerald, she started to pull on Blackie's ring, then stopped and looked down at it. This ring had lain in a vault waiting for her for fifty years, and she had promised Blackie she would never take it off. She pushed the ring back on her finger, next to Paul's platinum wedding band, and finished undressing. She had just put on her nightgown when there was a tap on the door and Emily's smiling face appeared around it.

"There you are, Grandy. I waited up for you."

"So I noticed, darling. But you didn't have to, you know."

"I wanted to, Gran. But to be honest, I didn't think you'd be as late as this. It's turned twelve-thirty!"

"I'm well aware of the time, Emily. And look here, if you're going to live with me, you mustn't start monitoring my comings and goings. And I don't need mothering either. I get enough of that from Paula at the store," Emma remarked

evenly, putting on her silk dressing gown and knotting the belt.

Emily giggled and skipped into the room, obviously wide awake and full of her usual joie de vivre. "It's not role reversal, if that's what .you're thinking. I'm not trying to mother you. I was merely commenting on the time." '

"Just bear in mind what I said."

"I will, Grandma." Emily hovered near the dressing table. She saw the jewelry strewn across it and her eyes darted to Emma's hand. She noticed the diamond at once, which shone with brilliance in the bright light from the lamps. "Aren't you going to show me Blackie's ring?" she asked.

Emma s brows shot up. "And how did you know about the ring?" The words had no sooner left her mouth than she wondered why she had even bothered to ask Emily, of all people, such a question.

"Merry and I were Blackie's conspirators," Emily explained. "About two weeks ago he asked her to ask me to,check your ring size. He thought your fingers might have shrunk."

"Did he indeed! I'll have to have a few strong words with him tomorrow. Does he think I've turned into a shriveled-up old crone," Emma exclaimed pithily.

Emily could not keep the laughter out of her voice as she said, "Nobody would think that about you, Gran, least of all Blackie. You're still beautiful."

No, I'm not. I am an old woman, Emma stated flatly. "But thank you for being nice, Emily. Of course," she added with a laugh, "everyone knows you're prejudiced." She held out her left hand. "Well, how do you like it?"

Emily took hold of Emma's hand, her bright green eyes huge and as round as saucers, her excitement apparent on her expressive, mobile face. "Gosh, Gran, I'd no idea it was going to be so big and such a beauty! It's fabulous!" She scrutinized the ring more closely and, with an expert's eye, lifted her head and nodded knowingly. "It's a perfect diamond, Gran. I bet it cost a fortune .'. ." Her voice trailed off and she hesitated, then asked in an uncertain tone, "Does this mean you and Blackie are going to get married?"

Emma burst out laughing and extracted her hand. "Of course not, you silly goose. Whatever will you think of next." She touched Emily's face lovingly, "You're such a romantic girl," she murmured, sighing softly. "No, it wouldn't be appropriate. Not at our ages. As Blackie said, we're engaged to be the best of friends for the rest of our lives." Emma now became aware of the undisguised curiosity and interest lingering on Emily's face, and before she could stop herself, she said, "I'll tell you the story about the ring, if you like."

"Oh yes, I'd love to hear it, Grandy'. Let's go to the parlor, though. I have a thermos of hot chocolate waiting for you. Come along." She took hold of her grandmother's arm possessively and shepherded her next door, not realizing she was fussing and bustling like a mother hen. Emma merely smiled and allowed herself to be bullied, secretly amused.

After filling two mugs with chocolate and giving one to Emma, Emily curled up on the sofa she had so recently vacated, tucked her feet under her, and gleefully snuggled down into the cushions. Lifting her mug, she took a sip and cried with delight, 'This is such fun, it's like being back at boarding school and having midnight feasts."

Emma's mouth twitched. "Don't get carried away, Emily," she laughed. "We won't be doing this every night. I'm usually in bed by this time. And talking of bed, it's getting very late. I-'d better tell you the story quickly so that we can go to sleep. We have a hectic day tomorrow.'

"Yes, Gran." Emily gave her grandmother her rapt attention.

When the old story'was finally told, Emily said, "Oh Grandma, that's so lovely and.touching and a little^sad in a way. And imagine him keeping the ring all these years. Gosh, that's real devotion." A wistful look swept across her delicately pretty face and she shook her head. "And you're skeptical about unrequited love! This should prove you're absolutely wrong."

Emma smiled indulgently, made no comment.

Brightening, Emily rushed on in her breathy voice, "Just think, if you'd married Blackie instead of Awful Arthur all those years ago, your children would have been very different— it's all a matter of genes, you know. I wonder if the oldies would have been any nicer?" Emily tilted her head and pursed her lips, lost in thought, her mind racing. Several things occurred to her all at once, and she burst out, "What about your grandchildren? Paula, for instance. And me. Goodness, Grandy, I might not have been me at all. I could have been someone altogether different—"

Emma cut in, "But I would have loved you just as much, Emily, and Paula too."

"Oh yes, of course you would, I know that. But your family would nave been very—"

"Now you're speculating about things we'll never know. And it's all much too complicated for me, especially at this hour," Emma said with a dismissive yet kindly smile. "But speaking of my family, what happened here this evening? How was the dinner party?"

Instantly Emily's face underwent a change, became serious as she sat up abruptly, swung her feet to the floor, and leaned closer to Emma. Her manner was confiding as she said, "You're not going to believe this, but Edwina's behavior was quite extraordinary—"

"In what way?" Emma asked sharply, dreading the worst.

Seeing the apprehensive expression settling on her grandmother's face, Emily shook her head with some vehemence. "Don't look like that. It was all right. Edwina was nice ... so nice I couldn't get over it, and neither could Paula. The Dowager Countess was charm personified. Well, that's not strictly true." Emily made a motie. "You know I have a tendency to exaggerate." Emily wrinkled her nose, went on, "She was sort of. . . cautious with Paula and me. She doesn't really like us. She was polite, though, and pleasant to everyone else. I can't imagine what you said to her earlier, Grandma, but it certainly had a drastic effect on her." Emily searched Emma's face and probed, "You must have given her an awful lecture. You did, didn't you?" A blond brow lifted quizzically.

Emma said nothing.

Emily volunteered, "I think Aunt Edwina had been crying before she came down for drinks. Her eyes were puffy and red, and so was her nose. She didn't want a drink. She asked me for aspirins and a glass of water. We'd only been alone together for a couple of minutes when Paula and Jim arrived with Aunt Daisy and Uncle David. Edwina attached herself to Daisy immediately—it's funny, she seems to have a thing about Daisy. Anyway she didn't say much to anyone else, not even Jim, during cocktails." Emily's shoulders hunched in a small offhanded shrug. "1 thought she seemed ever so subdued, and she was certainly abstemious. You know how incorrigible she and Mummy are, always tippling. They never know when they've had enough. Edwina didn't touch a drop all night though, not even wine with dinner." Flopping back against the cushions, regarding Emma more closely, she pressed, "What actually did you say to her, Gran?"

"Now, Emily, don't be so nosy. That's a private matter between Edwina and me. Anyway it's not important. What matters is that my words penetrated. Perhaps I drilled some sense into her after all."

"Oh I'm sure that's true," Emily agreed. "And there's something else—you'll never guess what she did before we went in to dinner."

"No, I'm certain I won't. So you might as well tell me, Emily."

"She asked Aunt Daisy if she could invite Anthony over for coffee later and then went to telephone him at Uncle Randolph's."

Emma stiffened and asked with a frown, "Did he come?"

"Oh yes." Emily grinned. "With cousin Sally. Oh, Gran, they're so much in love and super together."

"Sally came with him! How did Edwina treat her?"

"With cordiality. My eyes were popping, I can tell you that, and I wouldn't have missed that little scene for all the tea in China. 'Course Edwina was falling all over Anthony. She was a bit too obsequious, if you ask me—you know, Uriah Heepish—but then she's always fawned over her son." She gave Emma a huge smile and finished, "In a nutshell, Grandma, the dinner was a roaring success."

Emma was flabbergasted and temporarily rendered speechless. "Well," she said at last, "this is one for the books. I never expected Edwina to do such a volte-face." Privately she congratulated herself. Her dire warnings had frightened Edwina into behaving like a normal person seemingly. This is a major victory, she thought, and hoped that her daughter would not have a change of heart. Edwina was unpredictable. There was no telling what she might do in a moment of

Eique. Now, don't go begging for trouble, Emma cautioned erself. Relax.

Smiling brightly, filled with an enormous sense of relief, Emma propelled herself to her feet. "On that rather surprising but pleasant note, I think I'll get off to bed, darling girl." She leaned over and kissed Emily. "It looks as if everyone is going to behave with decorum tomorrow. Well, let's hope so. Goodnight, Emily."

Emily rose and hugged her tightly. "I do love you so much, Gran. And goodnight, sleep tight." She picked up the tray. "I suppose I'd better do the same. I've got to collect the twins from Harrogate College tomorrow, and I've thousands of other chores." She sucked in her breath. "Phew!" she exhaled, "1 never seem to have a minute to spare."

Emma swallowed a smile and disappeared into her bedroom before Emily decided to regale her with those chores she had planned for the following morning.

"Oh, Grandy," Emily called after her, "I'm glad you're not upset about the Aire Communications deal collapsing."

Emma came back to the doorway. "I'd venture to say that it's their loss, our gain."

"Yes, so Paula indicated when she mentioned it earlier." Emily glided to the door and muttered with a degree of terseness, "Sebastian Cross is simply dreadful. I thought Jonathan might make headway with him. Apparently he didn't, and if Jonathan couldn't succeed, then nobody could."

Emma stood perfectly still and said with the utmost care, "What are you chattering on about, Emily?"

Emily stopped in her tracks, swung to face Emma. "The Aire deal. You asked Jonathan to talk to Sebastian, didn't your.."

"No," Emma replied in the quietest of voices.

"Oh," Emily said, looking confused.

"What makes you think I propelled Jonathan into those particular negotiations?" As she spoke, Emma steadied herself against the door jamb, her astute eyes glinting darkly as they rested with fixity on her grandchild. All of her senses were alerted, and she remarked tersely, "Obviously something."

"Well, yes," Emily began and scowled. "On Tuesday, when I had dinner with Daddy in London, I saw the two of them in the bar of Les Ambassadeurs when we were leaving. We'd had an early dinner, you see, and Daddy was in a frightful stew about being late for a business meeting. He was in such a hurry I didn't get a chance to go over and speak to Jonathan."

"I see." Emma was thoughtful for a moment, asked, "Why did you suggest Jonathan would be able to influence young Cross?"

"Because of their old friendship . . . they were at Eton together. But then you know that, Gran. You once took me there with you when you went to visit Jonathan at half-term. Don't you remember?"

Yes. Naturally I also remember that Jonathan went to Eton. What I hadn't realized was that Cross was a pupil there

as well or that Jonathan and he had been friends in those days. I had—"

"I think they're still friends actually," Emily interrupted.

This bit of information chilled Emma to the bone, but she attempted a smile. "He probably wanted to surprise me. He might have realized the negotiations were going to be touchy and was endeavoring to smooth the way for Paula," she said, trying to convince herself this was the truth. But her intuition told her it was not. Emma gripped the door jamb more tightly, and, adopting a.meticulously casual tone, asked, "Did Jonathan see you in Les Ambassadeurs, .Emily?"

Emily shook her head. "He was in deep conversation with Cross." She pondered, asked swiftly, "Why? Is it important?"

"Not really. Did you mention this to Paula?"

"I didn't get an opportunity. She had just started to tell me about the Aire fiasco, as she called it, and Cross being horrid to her, when Hilda announced dinner." Emily bit her inner lip, frowning, beginning to wonder precisely what her grandmother was leading up to with her questions.

Emma nodded as though to herself, then remarked in that same lightly casual voice, "I'd prefer you not to say anything about this to Paula. I wouldn't want her to think he was interfering, queering her pitch. Unintentionally of course. And don't bother to bring it up with Jonathan either. I'll talk to him, find out what his aim was, if indeed he had an aim. It might have been a strictly social evening, you know, in view of their friendship."

"Yes, Grandy, whatever you say."

Emily stood rooted to the spot, studying her grandmother closely, filling with alarm. Emma's face had paled as they had been talking, and she noticed that the happy light in her eyes had fled. They were uncommonly dull, lifeless for once. Emily put down the tray hurriedly and flew across the room. She grasped Emma's arm, exclaimed with concern, "Are you all right, Gran darling?"

Emma made no response. Her mind was working with that razorsharp precision and vivid intelligence which were so integral to her great genius. Assessing and analyzing with her rare brand of shrewdness and perception, she suddenly saw things with a clarity, that shocked. For a split second she recoiled from the truth. I'm making assumptions, she thought, but then her ingrained pragmatism reminded her that she was rarely wrong. The truth was staring her in the face.

Becoming conscious of Emily's hand clutching her arm, her worry and anxiousness apparent, Emma dragged herself out of her disturbing thoughts. She patted the girl's hand, brought a smile to her face that was convincing, reassuring in its certitude. '

"I'm just tired," Emma said in a contained voice and smiled again. But she felt as though something cold had touched her heart.

Chapter Ten

The medieval church at the top of the hill in Fairley village was filled to capacity, almost bursting at the seams.

Family and friends occupied the front pews, and the villagers were crowded in closely behind, for they had turned out in full force to honor Emma Harte at the baptism of her great-grandchildren. And after the ceremony they would troop across the road to the parish hall to partake of the special celebration tea, which Emma had instructed Alexander to arrange.

All was peace and serenity within the ancient gray stone walls. Sunshine pouring in through the stained glass windows threw rainbow arcs of dancing, jeweled light across the somber stone floor and the dark wood pews. Masses of spring flowers were banked around the altar and on the altar steps. The mingled scents of hyacinths, narcissus, freesia, imported mimosa, and lilac filled the air, diminishing the peculiar musty smell of mildew and dust and old wood that was so prevalent in the church. It was the odor of antiquity, one that-Emma had detested since childhood, and she had automatically chosen the most fragrant of flowers for this occasion in an attempt to counteract it.

She sat in the front pew, proud and dignified, wearing a midnight-blue wool-crepe dress and loose matching coat. A small velvet beret of the same deep blue was perched at a jaunty angle on her immaculate silver hair, and she wore the McGill emeralds and a long rope of matchless pearls. Blackie was seated to her left, handsome in a dark suit, whilst Daisy sat with her husband, David Amory, to Emma's right. Ed-wina was wedged in between David and Sarah Lowther, her posture rigid, her expression rather prim, as usual.

Emma had been somewhat taken aback to find Sarah standing on the porch steps when they had arrived. No one had expected to see her, since she was supposed to have a bad cold. They had spoken briefly at the back of the church before taking their seats, and Emma had been immediately struck by her granddaughter's healthy appearance. In her opinion Sarah had either made a miraculous recovery overnight or had not been sick in the first place. It was more than likely she had toyed with the idea of not coming in order to avoid Shane. Emma could not hold that against her. She understood, had a good idea how Sarah probably felt. But, she thought, I'll say this for Sarah. She's a cool customer. Sarah had not blinked an eyelash nor displayed the slightest sign of self-consciousness when Shane had greeted them earlier.

Now Emma sneaked a look at him.

He was sitting with his parents in a pew across the nave, his face in profile. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being observed, he turned his head slightly to the right and caught Emma's eye, half smiled, and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. Emma returned his smile, swung her eyes back to the altar.

Paula and Jim were standing at the carved stone font which dated back to 1574, surrounded by the godparents of their children, totaling six in all. The vicar, the Reverend Geoffrey Huntley, having christened the boy Lome McGill Harte Fairley, was now preparing to baptize the girl, who was to be named Tessa. Like her twin, she'would bear the same additional middle names.

Emily, one of Tessa's godmothers, was holding the baby in her arms, and -standing on Emma's left were Anthony and Vivienne Harte, who were the other godparents. Vivienne's elder sister, Sally, was godmother to Lome and cradled him, flanked on either side by his godfathers," Alexander and Winston.

What an attractive group of young people they are, Emma said inwardly, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, and she saw in her mind for a brief instant their antecedents . . . her own parents, her brother Winston, Arthur Ainsley, Paul McGill, Adele and Adam Fairley. How miraculous it was that

she and Blackie were still alive and were able to be here today to witness this event, to share in the joyfulness of the occasion.

She shifted her eyes to Paula and Jim.

They do look well together, she thought. He, so tall and broad and fair, the living emlwdiment of his great-grandfather Adam; Paula, so slender and willowy and dark, so dramatic-looking with her vivid McGill coloring. And Paula's inbred elegance was most apparent in the way she held herself and in her clothes. She had chosen a tailored wool suit of a deep violet tone and wore it with a lighter-colored violet satin blouse and a satin pillbox of the same tone. The violet echoed her eyes. She's still too thin, Emma thought, but she has such an extraordinary radiance this afternoon.

Her love for her granddaughter and her pride in the girl, were emotions most paramount in Emma at this moment, and her face relaxed into softer lines as she continued to regard Paula. The young woman standing up there at the font had given her nothing but happiness and comfort since the day she had been born, in much the same way that her mother, Daisy, had done and continued to do.

Emma closed her eyes. Paul would have been as proud of Paula as she was, for the girl had all the qualities he had most admired: honor, integrity, honesty, fairness, and an intelligence that frequently startled with its brilliance. Although she had gentle manners and was inclined to shyness, Paula possessed a certain cool poise, and she had inherited her grandfather's great sense of fun, as had Daisy. Yes, she's a McGill all right, Emma remarked under her breath. But she's a Harte as well. Thank God she has my toughness and astuteness, my indomitability and stamina. She's going to need all of those in the years to come, with what I'm leaving her, with what she has inherited from her grandfather. I hope she never thinks of her inheritance as a terrible burden. It w an enormous responsibility, of course . . .

Baby Tessa started to shriek, her piercing wails echoing throughout the church. Emma opened her eyes and blinked. She leaned forward, peered at the scene at the font. Everyone wore expressions of concern. The vicar was holding the baby, sprinkling the holy water on her forehead, christening her now in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. When he had finished, he handed the child back to

Emily, obviously with some relief. Emily began to rock her, trying to calm and soothe the infant to no avail.

Emma chuckled quietly, knowing it was the shock of the cold water on her forehead which had made Tessa cry. The child was protesting—and most vociferously. I can see it already, she thought, little Tessa McGill Harte Fairley is going to be the rebellious one in that family.

Daisy, also smiling, took hold of her mother's arm and squeezed it. She whispered, "It sounds to me as if Tessa is a chip off the old block, Mummy."

Emma turned her head to look into her favorite daughter's wide clear blue eyes. "Yes," Emma whispered back, "she's always been the livelier of the two. Another maverick in the brood?" She arched a silver brow most eloquently. Daisy simply nodded in answer, her fine eyes dancing with happiness and some amusement.

Within minutes the ceremony was over and they were slowly filing up the aisle. Emma, her arm tucked through Blackie's, smiled and nodded graciously, but she did not pause to speak to anyone.

Before long the entire family, their friends, and the villagers were assembled on the porch, congratulating the parents and chatting among themselves.

Several of the local residents came up to Emma, stood talking to her for a few minutes, but very shortly she excused herself and drew Blackie away from the crowd. She said, "I'll slip away now, and I'll be back before anyone notices my absence. Then we can get off to Pennistone Royal."

"All right, Emma. Are you sure I can't go with you?"

"No. But thanks anyway, Blackie. I won't be a minute."

As Emma edged away from the busy porch, Milson, Blackie's chauffeur, hurried toward her carrying a basket of flowers. She took it from him, smiled, and murmured her thanks.

She went through the lych-gate leading into the graveyard adjoining the church.

Her feet knew the way by heart, and they led her down the flagged path to the far corner, a bit secluded and bosky and shaded by an old elm tree growing by the side of the moss-covered stone wall. Lying in that corner, beneath the headstones she herself had chosen years before, were 'her parents, John and Elizabeth Harte. Next to them were her two brothers, Winston and Frank. She took bunches of flowers from the basket and placed one on each of the four graves. Straightening up, she rested her hand on her mother's headstone and stared out toward the bleak moors, a smudged dark line against the periwinkle blue sky filled with scudding white clouds and intermittent sunshine. It was a lovely day, surprisingly warm, balmy even, after the thunderstorms of yesterday. A perfect day to go climbing to the Top of the World. She strained her eyes, but that spot was too far away in the distance to see and was obscured by the . soaring fells. She sighed, remembering. Her eyes swept from headstone to headstone, name to name. I've carried each one of you in my heart all the days of my life, she said silently. I've never forgotten any of you. Then unexpectedly the queerest thought entered her mind—she would not be coming back here again to visit these graves.  Emma turned away at last.

Well, Adam Fairley, she thought, I won. In the end it was I who triumphed. There is nothing left that your family owns in the village, except this plot of land where you are buried. Everything else belongs to me, and even the church operates mostly through my largesse. Your great-great-grandchildren have just been christened, and they bear both of our names, but it is from me that they will inherit great wealth and power and position. These thoughts were not rancorous but ran through her mind in a matter-of-fact way, for she had lost all hatred for the Fairleys, and it was not in her nature to gloat, especially when standing next to a man's last resting place.

Slowly she walked back to the church, and the smile on her serene face was one of gentleness and peace.

Coming through the lych-gate, Emma saw Blackie standing to one side, away from the large group of people, talking to her two youngest grandchildren, Amanda and Francesca.

Blackie chuckled as she came to a standstill by his side. "You might know these two would see you do your disappearing act! I had to forcibly restrain them from running after you. Well, almost."

"We wanted to look -at the graves, too, Grandy," Amanda explained, "we love cemeteries."

Emma gave her a look of mock horror. "How morbid."

"No, it isn't, it's interesting," Francesca chirped up. "We like to read the tombstones, and we try to guess what the people were like, what kind of lives they led. It's like reading a book."

"Is it now." Emma laughed, and the look she gave the fifteen-year-old was affectionate. "I think we should go back to the house," Emma continued, "Did Emily tell you we're having a champagne tea this afternoon?"

"Yes, but she said we couldn't have any champagne. We can, though, can't we, Gran?" Amanda asked.

"Just one glass each, I don't want you both getting tiddly."

"Oh thank you, Gran," Amanda said, and Francesca linked her arm in Emma's and announced, "We'll come with you. Uncle Blackie's car is much nicer than Emily's old Jag."

"That's not a very nice attitude, Francesca. You came xvith Emily, and you will drive back with her. Besides, Uncle Blackie and I have things to discuss."

But they did not really have anything very special or important to talk about. Emma simply wanted to be alone with er dear old friend, to relax before the reception, to catch her breath before she was engulfed by her large and unorthodox clan.

At one point as they were driving along, Blackie looked at her and said, "It was a grand christening, Emma. Very beautiful. But you had such a strange look on your face when the vicar was baptizing Lome, I couldn't help wondering what was going through your mind."

Emma half turned to face him. "I was thinking about another christening . . . the one you performed when you baptized Edwina with Armley tap water in Laura's kitchen sink." Her eyes held his for the longest moment. "I couldn't help dwelling on the past. You know, Edwin Fairley wouldn't have been permitted to marry me when I was pregnant, even if he had wanted to, and so Edwina could never have been christened here at Fairley. That really struck home today."

"Yes," he said in agreement, "it would have been denied her, no matter what."

Emma nodded. "And so, as I thought of everything that has gone before in my long life, it suddenly occurred to me that this occasion today was a most compelling example of ironic reversal. And that Adam Fairley, more than anyone else, would have appreciated the poetic justice of it all."

She paused, smiled faintly. 'The wheel of fortune truly has come full circle."

Chapter Eleven

Jim Fairley, orphaned at the age of ten and raised by his widowed grandfather, had always been lonely as a child.

In consequence' he thoroughly enjoyed being a part of Emma Harte's huge family, one which had become his own when he married Paula in 1968. In a way, being flung headfirst into this extraordinary clan was something of a novelty to him; also, as yet he remained unscathed by them and thus had kept an open mind about their individual characters, had not attempted to do a tally of their attributes or their faults. And he had held himself apart from the complex animosities and alliances, feuds and friendships that flourished around Emma.

Because Jim rarely thought ill of anyone, he was frequently startled when Paula came down hard on one of her aunts or uncles, and at times he even wondered if she exaggerated when she listed their imperfections, the terrible wrongs they had done her grandmother. But then she was fiercely protective of her beloved Grandy, whom she doted on. Jim was 'secretly amused by his wife's attitude, since he believed no one was better equipped to take care of herself than Emma Harte.

A short while ago Jim had decided that Paula's warnings about the Countess of Dunvale were written in water. So far this weekend Edwina had behaved impeccably—as he had fully expected she would. If she was somewhat reserved with Paula, she was at least civil, and he had even managed to make Edwina laugh on their way back from the church. She was still in an amiable mood, as he could now see.

His aunt was chatting with her son Anthony and Sally Harte near the fireplace, and her usually stiff, tight-lipped expression had all but vanished. For once she appeared to be relatively at ease. Poor old thing, she's not so bad, he thought, as always charitable about others, and swung his eyes to the painting to Edwina's left. This hung over the white marble fireplace; and it was one of his favorites.

Jim stood at the entrance to the Peach Drawing Room. Pennistone Royal, that lovely mixture of Renaissance and Jacobean design, boasted two formal reception rooms. Paula had chosen this one for the christening party.

He was glad that she had.

He thought it was the loveliest spot in the entire house, with its cream and peach color scheme and exquisite paintings. Although Emma had depleted her renowned collection of Impressionists by selling some of them off last year, she had retained the two Monets and the three Sisleys that graced these walls. In his opinion it was the works of art that gave the tranquil and elegant Regency room its great beauty.

Jim gazed at the Sisley for a second or two longer, admiring it from this vantage point. He had never coveted anything material in his whole life, but he longed to own this painting. Of course he never would. It would always hang in this house, as Emma had decreed in her will. One day it would be Paula's property, and therefore he would never be deprived of it, could gaze at the landscape whenever he wished. That was why his intense desire for personal possession of it constantly startled him. He had never felt so strongly about anything, except perhaps his wife. His eyes sought Paula without success. The room had filled up during the ten minutes he had been absent with the photographer, who was setting up his equipment in the Gray Drawing Room. It was just possible she was hidden from view.

He went in rapidly.

At six-foot-one, well built but trim of figure and with long legs, James Arthur Fairley cut quite a swathe, especially since he
was something of a clotheshorse, was never anything but faultlessly dressed right down to his handmade shoes. Like his great-grandfather before him, he had a weakness for elegant clothes and a penchant for wearing them with a bit of a dash.
Fair of coloring with light brown' hair, he had a pleasant, rather sensitive face and soulful grayish blue eyes. Born and bred a gentleman, he had a natural self-confidence and handled himself easily and with aplomb in any given situation. He had a certain quiet charm and a ready smile for everyone.

This flashed as he strode into the center of the room and glanced about, looking for Paula.

Since he could not find her, he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and made a move in his father-in-law's direction. Edwina spotted him and hurried over, cutting him off before he reached David Amory. She at once launched into a rave about the church ceremony and then engaged him in a conversation that centered on Fairley village. As he listened patiently, Jim realized yet again, with a recurrence of his initial surprise, that being a Fairley was of tremendous importance to her. Ever since their first meeting, she had continued to ply him with questions about his grandfather, his grandmother, and her father, the long-dead Earl of Carlesmoor, and was inquisitive about his own parents, who had been tragically killed in a plane crash in 1948.

On the various occasions he had been with his half great-aunt, for that was what she actually was, he had detected a sense of embarrassment in her because of her illegitimacy, and he had always felt slightly sorry for her. This was one of the reasons he tried to be kind, to include her in those family celebrations about which he had something to say. His mother-in-law had a nice way with Edwina, but apart from this, Jim recognized that Edwina was 'drawn to Daisy because they had both been bom on the wrong side of the blanket. Emma's first child strongly identified with her youngest because of this similarity in their births. But their illegitimacy was the only thing they had in common. The two women were the antithesis of each other. His mother-in-law had the sweetest nature, was a compassionate and considerate woman and a Jady in the truest sense of that word. There was no "side" to Daisy Amory, and he liked her for her relaxed attitude toward life, her gaiety, and her sense of humor. Sadly his Aunt Edwina was inflexible and sour, tense and standoffish, a dyed-in-the-wool snob whose basic values were quite alien to him. Yet there was something indefinable in her that touched him, filled him with a curious sympathy for her. Perhaps this was because they shared the same blood. Paula constantly said that blood was nof thicker than water, but he tended to disagree. He was sure of one thing. His relationship with Edwina, slender and tenuous though it was, annoyed Paula to the point of anger. He found this to be most unreasonable on her part, and he fervently wished she could be less emotional about his aunt. In his opinion Edwina was a harmless old lady.

"I'm so sorry, Aunt Edwina, I missed that," Jim said with an apologetic smile, giving her his undivided attention again.

"1 was saying that it was a pity my mother had Fairley Hall torn down." Edwina gave him a long and careful look through her narrowed silvery eyes. "The house was very old, and by rights it really ought to have been preserved as a landmark in Yorkshire. And just think, if it were still standing, you could have lived there with Paula."

Jim missed the inherent criticism of her mother in these words. He laughed and shook his head. "1 don't think so. I didn't like the look of Fairley Hall from the photographs I've seen. According to Grandfather it was a hodgepodge of architectural styles and a bit of a monstrosity. He never liked it himself, and personally I think Grandy did the right thing."

Daisy, who had been hovering close by, caught the tail end of their conversation and exclaimed, "I second that, Jim. Besides, Mother put the land it stood on to very good use by turning it into a park for the villagers. It's a charming spot for them during the warm weather. It was very generous of her." She glancea across at the Vicar of Fairley, who was talking to her husband, and explained, "And the reason Reverend Hunt-ley is beaming right now is because Mother has just given him a large check for the church restoration fund. She keeps that village going in more ways than one." Having rebutted Edwina, squelched her in the pleasantest way, Daisy gave her half sister a warm smile. "I haven't complimented you, Edwina dear. You look lovely, and that's a very smart suit you're wearing."

"Oh," Edwina said, startled by these kind words. She hardly ever received compliments. She preened a little, a sparkle entered her pale eyes, and she automatically reached up and patted her hair. Then, remembering her manners,

she rushed on, '"Thank you very much, Daisy. You look beautiful yourself, but then you always do. As for my suit, it's by Hardy Amies. I wasn't sure it was right for me, but he persuaded me it was."

The two women discussed clothes for a few seconds; then Daisy exclaimed, "You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. I can see Mother trying to catch my eye."

Left alone with Jim again, Edwina began to enumerate the delights of her home in Ireland. "I do wish you could see Clonloughlin at this time of year, Jim. It's perfectly beautiful. Everything's so green. Why don't you and Paula make plans to come over for a weekend soon? You've never seen it, and we'd love to have you. It's only a hop, skip, and a jump in that plane of yours."

"Thank you, Edwina, perhaps we will." As he spoke, Jim knew Paula would never agree. He decided to cover himself and added, "However, I don't think I'll be able to drag her away from the babies for some time yet."

"Yes, I do understand," Edwina murmured, wondering if she had been rebuffed, and to cover her confusion she went on talking nonstop.

Jim, listening politely and trying to be attentive, wished he could make his escape. Because of his height he towered above Edwina, who was quite small, and now he glanced over her silvery blond head, looking around, wondering what had happened to Paula. Most of their guests had arrived. She was noticeably absent.

Sarah Lowther had just walked in on the arm of her cousin, Jonathan Ainsley. Bryan and Geraldine O'Neill were talking to Alexander Barkstone and his girlfriend. Blackie was standing by the window, engaged in an animated conversation with Randolph Harte, and he appeared to be excited about something, was beckoning to his granddaughter. Miranda floated over to join them, a vision in one of her crazy costumes, her freckled face brimming with laughter, her bright auburn hair gleaming like a copper helmet in the sunshine pouring through the tall windows.

Jim shifted slightly on his feet, surveying the room at large. Emma was perched on the arm of a sofa, being attentive to her brothers widows, Charlotte and Natalie. These two genteel-looking ladies gave the impression of frailty and great age in comparison to Emma, who exuded vitality and happiness this afternoon. He studied her face for a moment. He had revered
and respected this remarkable woman all the years he had worked for her; since his marriage to her granddaughter, he had come to know a different side of her, had grown to love her. Emma had such an understanding heart, was kind and generous, the most fair-minded person he had ever met. What a fool his grandfather had been to let her escape. But he supposed things were difficult in those days. Stupid class differences, he thought and sighed under his breath. Then, quite suddenly, he wished that Edwin Fairley had lived long enough to witness this day ... to see the Fairleys and the Hartes united at last through matrimony. Their blood was mingled now. He and Paula had started a new bloodline.

He became aware that Edwina had stopped her ceaseless chattering and was staring up at him. He said quickly, "Let me get you a refill, Aunt Edwina; then 1 think I d better go and look for Paula. I can't imagine what's happened to her."

"No more champagne at the moment, thank you, Jim," Edwina said with the faintest of smiles. She was determined to remain cool and collected and keep a clear head this afternoon. Too much wine would have an adverse effect on her, make her lose her self-possession. That she could not afford. She said, "Before you disappear there is one thing I'd like to ask of you. I've been wondering if you would be kind enough to invite me to your house in Harrogate. I know it belonged to your grandfather." She hesitated, nervously cleared her throat, and finished, "I'd love to see where he ... where my father lived for so many years of his life."

"Of course you must come over for drinks," Jim said, understanding this need in her. He hoped Paula would not fly into one of her tempers when he told her he had acquiesced to his aunt's request. He began to edge away when Emily, with Amanda and Francesca in tow, breezed up to them, cutting off his escape route.

Smiling brightly, Emily grabbed his arm, glanced at Edwina, and cried, "Hello, you two. Isn't this the most amazing bun fight. I think it's going to be a super party."

Jim smiled at her indulgently. He was extremely fond of young Emily. "Have you seen my wife anywhere?" he asked.

"She went upstairs with the nursemaids and the babies, muttering something about changing them. I guess they wet themselves rather thoroughly." Emily giggled and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "Just be glad they didn't get

that elegant Kilgour and French suit of yours drenched with their wee-w—"

"Really, Emily," Edwina sniffed reprovingly, "don't be so vulgar." She gave her niece a cold ana disapproving look.

Emily, blithely unconcerned, giggled again. "Babies do do that, you know. They're like puppies. They can't control their bladders. And I wasn't being vulgar, Aunt Edwina, merely stating a fact of life."

Jim could not resist laughing, recognizing that Emily was purposely being provocative. He threw her a warning frown, glanced at his aunt, praying she would not pounce on Emily.

Edwina was obviously annoyed. Fortunately, before she could think of a suitably chilly response, Winston hove in view, made a beeline for them, greeted everyone, and positioned himself between Emily and Amanda.

He turned to Jim and said, "Sorry to bring up business on such a festive occasion, but I'm afraid I have no alternative. I'd like to get together with you first thing on Monday to discuss a couple of matters. Will you have time to see me?"

"Of course," Jim said, giving Winston a puzzled look. Concern edged into his eyes, and he frowned. "Anything serious?"

"No, no, and the only reason I mentioned it now was to make sure you'd keep an hour free for me. I have to go to Doncaster and Sheffield that day, and the rest of the week is impossible. I'm really jammed."

"Then let's make a definite date, Winston. Say about ten-thirty? I'll have the first edition out on the streets by then."

'That's fine," said Winston.

With this matter settled, Jim said, "Your father seems very pleased with himself, and so does Blackie. Look at them both. They're behaving like a couple of kids with a new toy. What's all the excitement about?"

Winston glanced over his shoulder and laughed. "My father wants to run Emerald Bow in the National next year, and Blackie's tickled to death about it. I think Aunt Emma's just as thrilled."

"So I can see," Jim said.

' "Gosh, what marvelous news, Winston," Emily exclaimed. "I hope Grandma invites us all to go to Aintree next March." The conversation now centered around the Grand National and the possibility of Emerald Bow winning the steeplechase.

All kinds of opinions were voiced, and even the fifteen-year-old twins had something to say.

But not Edwina. She was silent.

She sipped the last drop of champagne in her glass, eyed Winston with an oblique surreptitiousness. She did not particularly like him. But then she had never had much time for the Hartes. All they had were pots and pots of money. And looks. She could not deny that they were a good-looking family—each and every one of them. Suddenly with a small start of surprise, she saw how closely Winston resembled her mother. She had always been aware that they shared certain physical characteristics, yet had never realized how pointed and strong these were. Why, Winston Harte is a younger, male replica of her, Edwina muttered to herself. More so than any of her children or grandchildren. The same features, so clearly defined they might have been cut by a chisel; that red hair shot through with gold; those quick intelligent eyes of an unnatural green. Even his small hands holding the glass are like hers. My God, it's uncanny, Edwina thought and looked away quickly, wondering why this revelation disturbed her.

Jim, who had been listening with interest to Winston talking about Steve Lamer, the jockey, interrupted him when he exclaimed, "There's Paula at last." His face filled with pleasure, and he waved to her. "I'll see you all a little later. * He squeezed Edwina's arm reassuringly and dashed across the room.

Paula watched him hurrying to her, a happy expectant smile playing around her mouth. Her heart tightened. She loved Jim very much, and she was so lucky to have found him. He was the dearest, sweetest man, and fine and honorable and good. She xvould have to. try harder with Edwina . . . she wanted so much to please her husband.

Jim caught Paula's hands in his as he came to a standstill by her side. He smiled down into her face. "You were gone such a long time," he said. "I missed you."

"The babies, darling, they needed me." Her sparkling bright eyes rested on him lovingly. "I hope you're not going to turn out to be one of those jealous fathers I keep hearing about."

"Not on your life. I adore those little moppets." He leaned into her, pulled her closer, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "But I also adore you. Listen, darling, let's sneak away tonight and have a quiet dinner. Just the two of us. Your parents won't mind. They can have dinner with Emma."

"Well—"

"I won't take no for an answer, my pet." He bent over her and whispered in her ear, gripped her hands all that more tightly as he did so.

Paula blushed at his words, then laughed a light sweet laugh. "You're positively wicked. A regular devil." Looking at him archly, she teased flirtatiously, "I'll have you know I'm a married woman, sir. What you propose is most indecent. Quite improper, I'd say."

"Do you really think so?" He laughed and then he winked, "1 think my ideas are very exciting.'

"Mummy's-heading this way," Paula said, laughing and adroitly changing the subject. "And she's looking very determined about something."

"Say yes," Jim demanded. "To everything."

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

Daisy looked from one to the other fondly and shook her head. "Sorry to break up you two lovebirds, but Mother is champing at the bit. She wants to get the photography out of the way as soon as possible now. I'm rounding everyone up. So come along, lets start assembling in.the Gray Drawing Room. Oh and by the way, Jim dear, I've suggested that Edwina be included in one of the family group portraits, and my mother has agreed."

"How very nice of you, Daisy," Jim exclaimed with warmth and sincerity, thinking how typical it was of her to be thoughtful and caring about another person's feelings. That Daisy had shown such consideration for Edwina was doubly commendable..

Emma Harte had never missed a trick in her entire life.

This afternoon was no exception. Her eyes were everywhere, and from her position near the fireplace, she had an overall view of the room and everyone in it. In much the same way that Jim Fairley held himself apart and took in everything, so Emma herself played the observer much of the time these days.

However, unlike Jim, who only saw things on the surface and moreover believed exactly what he saw, Emma had an almost frightening perceptiveness, one that pierced any facade to comprehend what actually lay behind it. She understood that nothing was ever the way it seemed, and so she was acutely conscious of the undercurrents in the room—the rivalries, the conflicts, the bad blood that existed between some of those present.

A sardonic smile touched her lips. As usual, cliques had formed. It was easy to see who was allied to whom. And she could read them all like an open book.

Edwina was the one who had surprised her the most, in that she had obviously had the intelligence to accept the inevitable. Her eldest daughter was giving off an aura of cordiality, sitting on the sofa near the window, chatting with Sally. On the other hand, Emma had noticed that she was assiduously avoiding any real contact with the other Hartes in the drawing room.

Randolph, Sally's father, and his two other children, Vivienne and Winston, were most decidedly persona non grata with Edwina, and her intense dislike of them was barely concealed behind the stiff and chilly smiles she had given them earlier. Edwina was also cold-shouldering Blackie, although there was nothing new about that. Once last year Edwina had referred to him as the grand seigneur, meaning it disparagingly, her voice ringing with sarcasm.

Emma smiled inwardly. She had rather liked the description then, she did so now. It was apt.

Blackie was indeed behaving like the grand patrician gentleman, strolling around as if he had territorial rights, his manner distinctly proprietary, being gracious and charming, playing the genial host to the limit. And why not? He was her greatest friend and her escort after all; this was her house, and she was the hostess at this gthering. He had stood at her side during the toasts and the cutting of the christening cake, and after Randolph had finished speaking, he had made a toast himself. To her. He had called her the youngest and most beautiful great-grandmother in the world. Now he had paused, was hovering over Paula, who in turn hovered over her babies. Daisy joined them, her serenity and sincerity and goodness a beacon in this room.

Emma shifted her eyes to the far corner, where they settled on her grandson, Alexander.

Always reserved, Alexander seemed particularly so with Jonathan and Sarah, whom he had briefly acknowledged when he had arrived. Since then he had consistently and carefully

ignored them. He had attached himself to Bryan and Geral-dine O'Neill at the commencement of the reception and returned to sit with them after the photographs had been taken. She did not understand why he was being cool and distant with Sarah and Jonathan. Could they have had a disagreement? Even a falling-out? Or was he simply bored by the company of his cousins with whom he worked at Harte Enterprises? She turned these possibilities over and then let them go. She would know soon enough if there were any real problems amongst these three. She wished Alexander would make up his mind about that nice Marguerite Reynolds. He had kept that poor girl dangling for too long. Now where was she hiding herself?

Emma scanned the room. Ah yes, there she was near the door, laughing with Merry O'Neill and Amanda. Good God, was that child drinking another glass of champagne. Her third? Emily is supposed to be looking after those sisters of hers, and she's not even in the room, Emma thought and took a step forward, making for Amanda, then stopped in her tracks. Emily had just returned with Winston and Shane, had spotted Amanda, and was about to chastise her little sister, who wore a guilty expression. Emma nodded to herself, amused at the little scene being enacted. Emily, for all her youth and gay disposition, could be very tough when she wanted to be.

Shane had detached himself from Winston and Emily and was prowling across the floor. Her eyes followed him. He came to a stop next to David, drew Paula's father to one side, began speaking to him intently. Shane is not himself today, Emma decided. He has a remote air. It occurred to her that he might be suffering from ennui at this family function of hers, not to mention preoccupation with his impending trip to New York.

As for Sarah, her auburn-haired granddaughter appeared to be patently uninterested in Shane. Did Emily exaggerate? No, definitely not. Sarah, clinging to Jonathan like a barnacle to a hull, was by her very actions proving to Emma that she did indeed care greatly. If Shane no longer mattered to her, . she would not be huddled in a corner staying out of his way. Was Jonathan a handy convenience? Or had he and Sarah formed some kind of special alliance lately? If so, why? They had never been particularly close in the past.

Emma gave Jonathan a long hard stare, studying that bland and smiling face, noting his insouciant manner. How disarming he could be. He's clever, she thought, but not quite as clever as he believes he is. He has acquired the knack of dissembling, most likely from me. And because I'm better at dissimulation than he is, he doesn't deceive me one little bit. I have no hard evidence of his treachery, nothing concrete with which I can nail him, and yet I know he's up to no good.

When Emma had first arrived at the Fairley church, Jonathan had rushed over to her and told her he would see her on Monday morning, would bring her his new evaluation of the Aire Communications building. She had merely nodded, kept her face inscrutable. But she had immediately wondered why he suddenly thought the evaluation of the building's worth was no longer urgent, that it could now wait until Monday. She had been stressing its urgency to him for some time. Emma had not had to think very hard to come up with the answer. Jonathan knew the evaluation was no longer pressing. because he was aware that the Aire deal had collapsed. Neither she nor Paula had mentioned the failure of those negotiations, so he could only have acquired his information from Sebastian Cross and in the last twenty-four hours.

This conversation at the church, coupled with Emily's revelation of the night before, had convinced Emma that Jonathan was somehow im'olved with the Crosses, in cahoots with them. But to what purpose?

She did not know. But she would soon find out. She had no intention of confronting Jonathan on Monday morning. It was not her way to show her hand when that hand could be doling out rope, forming a noose. Instead she would go to London next week and start digging. Discreetly. Jonathan's behavior today had only served to underscore the nagging suspicion that he was not trustworthy, a feeling that she had harbored for weeks. Without realizing it, he had alerted her further. If he were really smart he would have acted as though the Aire deal were still alive. He had made a small slip—but it was a fatal one in her eyes.

Jonathan happened to turn around at this moment. His glance met hers. He smiled broadly and loped across the room to her.

"Goodness, Grandy, why are you standing here all alone?" he asked, showing concern for her. Not waiting for a reply, he went on, "Do you want anything? A glass of champagne or a cup of tea maybe? And do come and sit down. You must be

tired." He took hold of her arm affectionately, and his posture was loving.

"I don't want anything, thank you," Emma said. "And I'm not a hit tired. In fact I never felt better." She gave him a smile as fraudulently sweet as his had been. Extracting her arm ever so gently, she remarked, "I've been enjoying myself, standing here watching everyone. You'd be surprised what people reveal alxnit themselves when they believe they're unobserved." Her eyes were riveted to his face.

She waited.

He squirmed under her unflinching gaze, returned it, managed to keep his expression open and candid. But he laughed too quickly and too loudly as he said, "You are a card, Grandy."

And possibly you're the joker in the pack, Emma thought coldly. She said, "What's wrong with Sarah? She's being rather aloof with everyone, apart from you of course."

"She's not feeling well," he answered with swiftness. "Fighting a bad cold."

"She looks as fit as a fiddle to me," Emma observed dryly, throwing a rapid glance in Sarah's direction.

Emma suddenly stepped back, moved away from Jonathan, and leveled her direct stare on him again. "Did you come up here together? And when did you arrive in Yorkshire?"

"No, we came separately. Sarah by train last night. I drove up this morning." This was said steadily enough, and he smiled down at her.

Emma saw the faintest flicker of deceit in his light eyes. She studied his face briefly. Arthur Ainsley's weak mouth, she thought: She said, "I'm glad Sarah has you to look after her today, Jonathan. It's most kind of you."

He said nothing, changed the subject by remarking, "Are you sure you don't want to sit down, Grandmother?"

"I suppose I might as well."

He steered her across the room .toward Charlotte and Natalie, and Emma smothered a laugh. So that's where he thinks I belong, with the old ladies, she thought with some acerbity.

He saw her settled on the sofa, spoke briefly to his great-aunts, and disappeared, heading back to Sarah.

Emma watched him go, filled with sadness and disappointment. Too bad about Jonathan, she thought with resignation. He surely doesn't realize it, but he's as transparent as water.

Just like his father. She had always seen right through Robin and had been several jumps ahead of him all of his life, usually to his perpetual irritation and discomfort. Sighing, Emma pushed herself into the cushions and accepted a cup of tea offered by one of the waiters, then turned to her sisters-in-law. Natalie, Frank's widow, was unusually garrulous this afternoon, and she soon dominated the conversation, caught up in an endless recital about her only child, Rosamund, who lived in Italy with her diplomat husband. Charlotte and Emma listened, eyeing each other with amusement from time to time, but Emma's interest rapidly waned. She soon fell into her myriad thoughts.

Emma would never know what prompted her to suddenly put down her cup of tea, stand up, and swing around at the precise moment that she did. And later, when she thought about it in private, she was to wish she had remained seated.

But she did go through these motions and found Shane O'Neill in her direct line of vision. He did not see her. He stood alone, leaning against the wall in the shadow of a tall Regency cabinet. There was an expression of such unadulter-. ated love and aching yearning on his handsome face that Emma had to stifle a gasp of surprise. His face was naked, utterly vulnerable, and it revealed the strongest -and most powerful emotions a man could feel for a woman.

And it was Paula whom Shane was staring at with such concentrated intensity and longing.

Oh my God, Emma thought, dismay flooding through her. Her heart missed a beat. How well she knew that look on a man's face. It signified passion and desire, the overwhelming urgency to possess absolutely. And forever.

But her granddaughter was oblivious to him. She was bending over the nursemaid who sat cradling Tessa, adjusting the child's christening robe, cooing to her. Paula's face was tender with a mother's love, and she was completely absorbed in the baby.

Emma was so shocked by what she saw that she could not move. She was rooted to the spot, staring at him transfixed, unable to tear her eyes away from Shane, 'who undoubtedly believed he was safe from prying eyes. Emma reached out blindly and gripped the back of the sofa, filled with a terrible shaking sensation.

To her immense relief the expression on Shane's face was fleeting. In a flash it vanished, was replaced by a studied expression of assumed nonchalance, one she knew so well. He moved out of the shadows without noticing her and mingled with the crowd again. -Distantly she heard his vibrant, throaty laugh and then Randolph's voice in response to something he had said.

Endeavoring to marshal her thoughts, Emma shifted her stance, turned to face the room. Had anyone else witnessed this intensely private moment of Shane's when his guard was down? Where was Jim? Emma's quick alert eyes darted from side to side, came to rest on Emily, who stood motionless a few yards away, staring back at her appalled, anxiety clouding her pretty young face.

Emma frowned. She pinned Emily with a knowing look, then motioned to the door with a brief nod of her head. Emma went out of the drawing room slowly. She was filled with sorrow, and her heart ached for Shane O'Neill. And as she crossed the Stone Hall, everything became crystal clear to her, and her sorrow deepened immeasurably.

Upon entering the library, Emma sat down heavily on the nearest chair. She was surprised her legs had carried her this far. She felt weak at the knees.

Emily came in a split second later, closed the door firmly behind her, and leaned against it speechlessly.

To Emma she looked as if she had seen a ghost. She was unnaturally pale, and her face was tight, very strained.

Emma said, "You saw it then? The way Shane was gazing at Paula?"

"Yes," Emily whispered.

"He's very much in love with her," Emma said, her voice husky. Her throat tightened. She paused, -got a grip on herself. "But then you knew that before today, Emily. In fact you almost let it slip out yesterday. But you managed to stop yourself just in time. That is correct, isn't it?"

"Yes, Gran."

"Don't look so scared, Emily. And come here and sit with me. I must talk to you about this. It's most disturbing."

Emily ran across the room and took the adjoining chair. She gazed deeply into Emma's troubled face, which looked oddly fatigued and weary all of a sudden. She said, "I'm truly sorry you had to find out. I never wanted you to know, Grandma. I knew it would pain you."

"Yes, that's true, it does. But now that I do know, I've a

couple of questions. First of all, how did you find out that Shane was in love with Paula in the first place?"

"Because I've seen that look on his face before. It was at Paula's wedding in London last year . . . when he thought no one was watching him. Much the same kind of situation as today. He was tucked away in a corner, at the reception at Claridge's, and his eyes never left her. And then there's his behavior . . . let's face it, Grandy, he's been distant and peculiar with her for the longest time. Actually to be honest he's dropped her like a ton of bricks. Obviously he can't bear to be around her, knowing she's married to someone else."

Emily bit her lip nervously. "I suspect that's also one of the reasons he spends so much time abroad. I know he has to travel because of their hotel chain, but Merry recently said something to me about Shane constantly jumping on planes at the slightest excuse. She said he seemed to have ants in his pants these days."

"I see," Emma said. "So Shane has never confided in you?"

"God no! He wouldn't. He's too proud."

"Yes," Emma said, "I know what you mean." She was reflective for a moment, then said almost to herself, "That seems to be a family characteristic. And it's false pride, too. What a waste of time that is. So very foolish in the long run. It serves no good purpose." She looked away, staring into the distance absently, seeing so much, understanding.

Emily patted her hand in her old-fashioned, motherly way, and urged, "Try not to worry. Gran. I know you love Shane like one of your own grandchildren, but there's nothing you can do about this."

"I'm aware of that, darling. But getting back to the incident in the drawing room, do you think anyone else saw what we saw? Jim for instance?"

"Jim had gone outside a few minutes before, Gran. I spoke to him as he followed Anthony and Sally out onto the terrace. Then Miranda joined them and the twins." Emily chewed her inner lip again. "Sarah. She has been sneaking looks at Shane all afternoon. She might have caught it; I'm just not sure." '

"I certainly hope she didn't!" Emma exclaimed worriedly.

"So do I." Emily took a deep breath, volunteered in a low voice, 'There was one person who noticed—"

"Who?" Emma demanded, looking at her swiftly.

"Winston."

"Well, thank God for small mercies. I'm glad it wasn't anyone else. Go and fetch him to me, Emily, and don't discuss a thing. Not in there. Too many nosey Parkers around."

"Yes, Grandmother." Emily flew out of the room.

Emma rose and went to the windows, staring out at her beautiful gardens. How peaceful they look in the radiant sunlight. . . next door in the drawing room there is a young man who has everything except the woman he loves and who may never know genuine peace in his whole life because of that. Unless his love for Paula ceases to exist. Emma doubted this would happen. The kind of love she had seen etched on his face was everlasting. Its depth and intensity chilled her to the bone. She was absolutely convinced that a man like Shane O'Neill would not be content to worship from afar. His emotions could easily propel him to take more overt action in time. He might try to fight for taula one day in the future. And even if Paula was not interested in Shane, the situation still spelled trouble, in Emma's opinion. Triangles were not only uncomfortable, they were explosive.

Emma let out a tiny sigh. She had no answers, no solutions, and speculating was surely a big waste of time.

Her thoughts settled on Paula. She prayed her granddaughter would be happy with Jim Fairley for the rest of her life. If she was not, Shane might indeed make headway with her. Yet this first year of the marriage had been idyllic. On the other hand there were things she herself had noticed and which had given her food for thought and cause to wonder about Jim. Instinctively she knew that he was no match for Paula when it came to inherent strength of character. Paula was inordinately stubborn, and she had a will of iron. And she was so much cleverer than Jim—on every level.

Emma admired Jim professionally—he was a brilliant newspaperman. Also she was fond of him personally. It was difficult not to be. On the other hand, Emma had recognized for some time that his judgment was flawed in many areas, most especially when it came to his assessment of people. He was not terribly discriminating. He liked everyone; furthermore he wanted everyone to be happy and all of the time, no less. He hated controversy and upset, bent over backward to keep the peace—and very often that was to his own detriment. In Emma's mind one of Jim's main problems was his overwhelming need to be liked in return, to be popular with every member of the family, his friends, and those in his employment. This trait in him both dismayed and irritated Emma. It was lonely at the top. And it was generally not very wise to be overly familiar with employees. That quickly led to trouble. Loath though she was to admit it, Jim was simply not of the same caliber as Paula. Would he hold up over the years? Every marriage had its problems, its stresses, its emotional upheavals. If Jim caved in because of his lack of stamina and endurance under pressure, what would happen to that marriage? To Paula? To their children? She hated "to contemplate the future in this dismal way and instantly pushed all negative thoughts out of her mind. They did love each other very much, and perhaps their love would overcome any differences thev may have.

Winston said, "You wanted to see me. Aunt Emma?" He sounded both nervous and concerned.

"Yes," Emma said, pivoting. She walked over to a grouping of chairs, motioned Winston and Emily to join her.

They sat down opposite her, waiting.

Winston had been mystified when Emily had dragged him out of the drawing room, whispering that Emma had sent her to get him. He knew at once, from the girl's anxious demeanor, that something was wrong. Now his worried air intensified as he puffed rapidly on his cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Emily's face was stark above her yellow suit, its bony pallor more pronounced.

Getting right to the point, Emma said, "A few minutes ago I saw Shane looking at Paula in such a way that it left no doubt in my mind about his feelings for her. Emily tells me you also noticed."

"Yes, I did," Winston said at once, realizing there was no point in denying it or lying. He braced himself, wondering what she would say next. He studied her face, which was severe and grave.

"Shane is in love with Paula," Emma announced in a clipped tone.

"Yes. And desperately so," Winston replied,-shaking his head. He had wondered for a long time when this would' come out in the open, and now that it had, he decided it was wisest to be completely candid with Emma. In a way he felt relieved that she finally knew. It had been a heavy burden for him to carry alone.

Desperately Emma repeated under her breath. And her heart sank. Winston was underscoring her own suspicions,

confirming her conclusions. She said slowly, "Has Shane discussed his feelings for her with you, Winston?"

No, Aunt Emma, he hasn't. He's a very private man and discreet. But I've picked up a few things lately, and I've known about his emotional involvement with Paula for a while now . . . through my own observations. After all we do share the same house at weekends. To be honest I have a feeling Shane thinks I know, but he's never brought the matter up. As I said, he's extremely discreet."

Emma sat back, pursing her lips, her.eyes more reflective than before. After a short silence, she said, "They've been as close as two peas in a pod all of their lives, Winston. How could he have let her slip through his fingers?"

"I can only hazard a guess," Winston muttered, eyeing her closely. He stubbed out his cigarette, the gesture filled with sudden anger. "It's because they grew up together ... I mean, I don't think he could see the wood for the trees, see what was under his nose. I'm positive Shane only realized the depth of his feelings for her when she became engaged to Jim. And they got married so quickly after their engagement was announced, Shane hardly nad time to catch his breath. Or act. It all went very fast, as you know."

Winston now lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug and glanced away, thinking of Shane's abject misery. It had grown more intense and acute—and more noticeable—lately. He was glad Shane was going to the States—for Shane's own sake. He turned back to Emma and finished, "That's my analysis of what happened, for what it's worth, Aunt Emma. I truly believe that it took another man in the picture to make Shane understand how much he loved Paula.'

"Yes, I think you're correct, Winston," Emma said.

"Do you think Paula ever knew or knows that he cares about her in that way?" Emily asked Winston in a hushed voice, touching his arm lightly, looking up at him.  "I honestly can't answer that, Emily. But I—"

Emma interrupted with great firmness, "I'm sure she didn't and doesn't have an inkling, dear." She cleared her throat and continued in that same clear strong tone, 'This is a most tragic state of affairs for Shane, but there's nothing anyone can do, least of all me. Not anymore. Also it's really none of my business. Nor is it anyone else's, for that matter. The last thing I want is for Shane or Paula to become topics for the gossip mongers in this family, and we all know there are a few who would love to tittle-tattle, perhaps blow this matter out of proportion. I have implicit faith in the both of you and in your discretion and loyalty. However, I must ask you both to promise me faithfully that you will never mention what you saw this afternoon to anyone ever. Is that clearly understood?"

"Of course I promise, Grandma," Emily cried in a shocked voice, looking at Emma aghast. "You must know I would never talk about Paula or do anything to hurt her, I feel the same way about Shane."

"I wasn't doubting you, Emily. I simply felt compelled to stress the importance of your absolute silence on this matter." She directed her attention at Winston.

He said, "I promise, Aunt Emma. I care about Paula and Shane as much as Emily does. And I tend to agree with you about the gossips in our family. There's also a lot of free-floating jealousy about Paula. Shane too, in many ways. They're very special people, so obviously they'll always be targets. My lips are sealed, Aunt Emma. Please don't worry about me."

"Thank you," Emma said and made a mental note of Winston's astute comments. She smiled thinly. "I would prefer it if we ourselves never referred to this matter again. 1 believe it would be best forgotten by the three of us. Shane is going away for six months. Let's hope he will forget Paula—"

"He'll never let go of her! Winston cut in fiercely, heatedly. "It's not in his nature to—" Angrily he clamped his mouth shut, regretting that he had .opened it in the first place.

But he had said enough for Emma to get a clear picture. Yes, she thought, that's what I'm afraid of, too. She said, as steadily as possible, "Perhaps he Witt always care for her, Winston. But he's a young man and virile. He has normal appetites and desires, I've no doubt. Let us hope that he'll eventually find someone who'll meet his needs and come up to his standards, a woman who can help him to forget Paula. I sincerely hope he makes a rewarding life for himself, finds fulfillment and happiness."

"I don't know about that," Winston muttered, changing his mind yet again. He ought to be truthful with Emma. He owed her that, after all. He threw his aunt a gloom-filled glance. 'And then, because he had always been able to say anything to her without a shred of embarrassment, he added

bluntly, "I'm sure he'll continue to have his brief, hit-and-run affairs, his sexual entanglements. He couldn't avoid them, not the way women throw themselves at him. Shane's no saint, you know. And he's hardly the type to lead a celibate life. After all, Aunt Emma, you don't have to be in love with a woman to sleep with her."

"Quite," Emma said, lifting a brow, glancing at Emily.

Winston noticed this, but Emily was a big girl. She knew what was what. Undeterred, he plunged on, "I suppose you won't want to hear this, but I'm going to say it anyway. In my opinion, Shane O'Neill will never love anyone but Paula. You said a few minutes ago that this was a tragic thing for Shane. And it is. But it's also tragic for Paula, / think. She'd have been far better off and happier with a man like Shane than with Jim Fairley."

Winston's harsh tone, not to mention his condemning words, brought Emma up with a start. She looked at him swiftly in astonishment, noticing the grim expression ringing his mouth, the angry glint in his eyes. Why, he bears a grudge against Jim, she thought, that's what his suppressed rage and resentment are all about. Winston is against Jim Fairley because he won Paula, cut Shane out.

Emma nodded, made no comment whatsoever.

Emily, her face puckering up, said quietly, "Poor Shane, life's so unfair."

"Come now, darling, you're only seeing Shane's side of this situation," Emma clucked gently, reprovingly. "Perhaps Paula doesn't think life is unfair. I'm sure she's happy with Jim. I know she loves him. And besides, Emily, whoever told you life is fair? It's most unfair, and it has always been damned hard in my experience. How we cope with life, react to our hardships and suffering, and overcome them—that's what really counts in the end. We must all be strong, learn from our troubles, grow in stature and character..We can't ever let adversity get us down, Emily. Now, let us end this discussion. Run along, the two of you. I want to be alone for a few minutes."

Winston went over and kissed her. So did Emily. They left together in silence.

Emma sat by herself for a while.

She felt weary, bone-tired. It seemed to her that she solved one problem only to encounter another. But then Her life had never been any different. Dear, dear Shane, she

murmured under her breath. My heart goes out to you. Life has dealt you a bad hand in this particular instance. But you'll survive. We all do.

Quite unexpectedly tears came into her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She searched her pockets for a handkerchief and dabbed at her wrinkled old face. She felt like weeping buckets of tears. But that was not her way, giving in like that. And tears solved nothing. She blew her nose, pocketed her handkerchief, and stood up, smoothing down her dress as she did.

Emma walked over to the windows again, taking a few deep breaths, drawing on her great strength, her willpower. And slowly she pulled herself together. Her thoughts came back to Shane. Perhaps Winston was right in his assessme'nt. Maybe Shane hadn't realized how he truly felt about Paula until it was too late. Then again, maybe he had believed he had all the time in the 'world to claim her for his own. We all think that time is endless when we're young, she sighed to herself. The years ahead seem to stretch out forever and indefinitely. But they don't . , . they disappear in a flash, in the wink of an eye. Blackie edged into her mind. She wondered what he would have to say about this situation. She decided at once not to tell him. It would upset him, cause him too much grief.

Last night Blackie had said that life was too damned short for dilly-dallying. There was a great deal of truth and wisdom in his words, especially when it came to a couple of old warriors like themselves. Emma made another sudden decision. She was going to accept-Blackie's invitation to go on that trip around the world after all. No more dilly-dallying for her.

Turning away from the window, Emma walked briskly across the floor and left the library. She went into the drawing room purposefully, seeking Blackie, picturing his expression when she told him to put his Plan with a capital P into operation immediately. And this she fully intended to do the minute she found him in the crowded room.

Chapter Twelve

"Do you think all families are like ours?"

"What do you mean—exactly?" Winston asked, turning to face Emily.

"We've always got a drama of one kind or another erupting. It seems to me there's never been a minute's peace for as long as I can remember. If it's not the awful aunts and uncles being beastly and scratching everyone's eyes out, it's our generation quarreling and creating the most dreadful upsets. To tell you the truth, I feel as though I'm on a battlefield half the time, and I don't think I'm a very good combatant."

Winston chuckled at her mournful tone, which reflected her dire expression. "You manage all right, Emily. You're a good little scrapper—so I've noticed."

The two of them sat together on an old stone garden seat at the bottom on the rolling lawns that sloped away from the wide terrace which fronted the Peach Drawing Room. Behind them, Pennistone Royal soared up into a sky of deepening blue, awesome in its grandeur and majestic beauty, the many windows glittering in the sunshine of late afternoon.

Now Winston said more thoughtfully, "But to answer your question, I don't suppose other families are quite like ours. After all, how many have an Emma Harte as the matriarch."

Emily drew away, looking up at him, a small frown wrinkling her smooth brow. Her eyes held his gravely as she said, "Don't blame Grandma for the dramatics that are being endlessly enacted. I think she's an innocent bystander, poor thing. I really get angry when I think of the heartache some members of this family cause her."

Winston exclaimed, "I wasn't being critical of her, if that's what you think. Or suggesting for one minute that she's responsible for these situations, Emily. I agree with you— she's not at fault. I was merely pointing out that as the most remarkable woman of our time and an original, there's bound to be controversy surrounding her. Look, she's had a very complex and complicated life, and one she's certainly lived to the fullest. She has shoals of children and grandchildren, and if you include all of us Hartes, which you must, her family is huge. Bigger than most. And don't forget her other close attachments—the O'Neill and Kallinski clans. Add up the numbers—and you've got an army, more or less."

"Everything you say is true, Winston. Still I do get awfully fed up with the infighting and bickering. I just wish we could all live peacefully together and get on with it, for God's sake."

"Yes . . . but there's another thing you must take into consideration, Emily. Immense wealth and power are vested in her and in this family, so obviously there are going to be jealousies and competitiveness and all kinds of machinations. It strikes me that intrigues are inescapable, given the nature of people . . . they can be rotten, Emily. Selfish, greedy, self-serving, and ruthless. I've discovered that some people will stop at nothing when their own interests are at stake.'

"Don't I know it!" Emily stared down into the murky depths of the pond, looking troubled! Finally she lifted her head and swung her eyes to Winston. "When I mentioned dramas a few minutes ago, naturally I was referring to Shane. But, I must admit, I sensed things this afternoon—you know, undercurrents. As usual the room was divided into camps. There was a lot of maneuvering going on."

"And who was doing what to whom?" Winston asked with some alertness, his curiosity aroused.

"Jonathan and Sarah are as thick as thieves, for one thing. That's very strange, because I know she never used to like him. I can't put my finger on it, yet I can't help feeling they're concocting something. -Alexander is probably suspicious of that new liaison. Didn't you notice how he's steered clear of them today?"

"Now that you mention it, yes. Personally I've never had much time for Jonathan Ainsley. He was a bully as a child, and like all bullies he's basically a coward. He projects a lot of charm these days, but I don't expect he's changed much over the years, not inside. I haven't forgotten the time he hit me over the head with a cricket bat. The nasty little bugger. He could have done me real damage."

"I know he could, and he was always horrid to me when we were growing up. I still believe it was Master Jonathan who cut the tires on that bicycle Grandy gave me when I was ten,

even though he denied it when she challenged him. He came up with some sort of plausible alibi about his whereabouts that day, but I just know it was a total fib." Emily scowled. "As for Sarah, well, she's been a loner and secretive all of her life."

"You know what they say—still waters -run deep and the devil's at the bottom," Winston remarked.

He bent down, picked up a pebble, and idly threw it into the pond, watching the ripples eddying out from the pool's center. "There have been occasions when I've thought that Sarah has the hots for Shane."

Emily started in surprise. "You're not the only one," she admitted quietly. "Well, fat chance she's got—" She stopped, added swiftly, 'That sounded mean, and I didn't intend to be catty, Winston. I don't dislike Sarah. She can be very sweet, and I feel sorry for her really. Carrying a torch for a man like Shane O'Neill must be positively awful. Even heartbreaking perhaps. She and I have never been all that close, but . . . well, I always thought she was true-blue—until today. Now I'm not sure anymore."

"She might have been using Jonathan as a shield, and that's all. It was pretty obvious she was trying to disappear into the woodwork because of Shane's presence, I've no doubt."

"Maybe you're right." Changing the subject, Emily remarked, "Jim's very taken with Edwina and with Anthony by the look of it. He's been glued to our young earl for the last hour or so. Maybe titles impress him. Anyway, what do you think about Anthony and Sally getting together?"

"Anthony's decent enough, but my father's not so happy about Sally's involvement with him, mostly because of Edwina. If Sally does marry him, we're going to have that old battleaxe slap bang in our midst. Not a very pleasing prospect. She hates the Hartes for some reason."

"It's because Grandma is a Harte!" Emily exclaimed. "Edwina has always looked down her nose at her mother. What a stupid woman she is. I really can't bear her." Emily'looked away, pondering. After a short silence, she said in a casual tone, "You don't like Jim Fairley, do you?"

Winston shook his head vehemently. "No, no, you're wrong there. I do like him, and I certainly have a high regard for his professional abilities. It's just that—" Winston shrugged, made a face. "Well, I know Paula better than most people. Despite that quiet facade she's very strong, as you know. She's also ambitious, driven, a workhorse, and a brilliant businesswoman to boot. She's quite extraordinary for her age, and the older she gets, the more like Emma she'll become, you mark my words. Actually she's been brought up and groomed to be exactly that—the next Emma Harte. By Emma Harte herself. So because of this and the differences in their personalities, I can't help thinking she and Jim are ill-suited. But then I'm prejudiced, I suppose ... in Shane's favor. He's my best friend and one hell of a man. But then—"

Emily broke in peremptorily, 'There's something I want to tell you about Jim, Winston. I believe he's got a lot more depth and strength than some people realize. Paula told me that he used to have the most terrible and agonizing fear of flying because his parents were killed in a plane crash when he was a small boy. And that's why he took up flying and bought his own plane. He became a pilot to conquer his fear. I know Gran hates him tootling around in his little tin bird, as she calls it, but it's obviously important for him to do so, perhaps even essential to his well-being."

Winston looked surprised: He said, "Then I've got to hand it to him, it takes guts and courage to overcome that kind of paralyzing fear. I'm glad you told me, Emily. Anyway, I was . about to say that 1 could be wrong about Paula and Jim. I'm not infallible. Maybe those two will make it together. I certainly don't wish any unhapptness on Paula, of whom I'm very fond. Or on Jim for that matter."

He paused, gave Emily a cheeky grin, and finished, "Besides^ nobody knows what really goes on between two people, or what happens in the privacy of the bedroom. Jim could have hidden charms, you know." He winked at her suggestively.

Emily could not help laughing. "You are wicked, Winston." Her eyes filled with mischief. "You should have seen Grandy's face when you were rattling on about Shane and his hit-and-run affairs and sexual entanglements. It was a picture. And she kept giving me the most surreptitious and concerned glances, as if I wasn't supposed to know about sex."

"And of course you are the lady of great experience, eh, Tiddler?"

Emily adopted a haughty expression and drew herself up on the bench. "Have you forgotten that I'm now twenty-two years of age? I know exactly how many beans make five."

They grinned at each other. She saw that Winston was highly amused. '

Emily went on, "Do you know, you haven't called me Tiddler since I was just that—a very little girl."

"And you were, too. The tiniest oflittle tots for your age."

"But I did sprout suddenly. I'll have_xyou know I'm now ' five-feet, five-inches tall, Winston Harte!"

"And a very grown-up young woman, I'll wager," he teased. "We had fun as kids, though, didn't we. Tiddler? Do you remember that day we decided to play at being early Britons, and I dubbed you Queen Boadicea?"

"How could I forget!" Emily shrieked. Her face flooded with merriment. "You painted me blue. All over."

"Not quite, since you insisted on keeping your knickers on, and your liberty bodice. You were a modest little thing, as I recall."

"No, I wasn't! It was the dead of winter and freezing in Grandy's garage. Besides, why would I be bashful then? I didn't have anything to show off when I was five years old."

Winston gave her an appraising look, one full of speculation, seeing her through the eyes of a grown man. "But you do now—" He left the rest of his sentence unfinished, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. Then he. became intensely aware of her close proximity as he breathed in the scent of her floral perfume, the lemony tang of her newly washed hair. Her face, at this moment upturned to his, was trusting, and it had lost its earlier pallor. She looked more like herself, so very pretty and delicate and as sweet as a summer rose, dewy and fresh and innocent.

Winston cleared his throat and could not resist drawing her closer to him, wanting and needing that closeness. He said tenderly, in a newly gentle voice, "It's a good thing you were a modest child, Emily. If you hadn't kept some of your clothes on, I would have painted you all over and probably killed you in the process."

"How were we to know at our ages that skin can't breathe through paint. It wasn't really your fault, Winston. I was just as bad, and after all I painted parts of you." Emily relaxed against him. She was as conscious of Winston as he was of her, and she longed to prolong this unanticipated and unexpected moment of real physical contact.

He let out a deep chuckle. "I'll never forget Aunt Emma's terrible fury when she found us in the garage. I thought she was going to give me the whipping of my life. Do you know, every time I smell turpentine I think of that day, of those gruesome turpentine baths she and Hilda gave us. 1 swear to God she scrubbed me twice as hard as she did you. Extra punishment for me, of course, the irresponsible ten-year-old boy, who should have known better. I was raw for days."

Emily squeezed his arm. "We were always getting into trouble, weren't we? You were the ring leader, I the devoted follower, faithfully trailing after you, doing your bidding. I did adore you so, Winston."

He nodded, looked down into a pair of sparkling eyes that were extraordinary reflections of his own.

Winston caught his breath. He saw something flashing in those green depths, an intensity of feeling, the self-same adoration she had had for him when she had been a child. Unexpectedly his heart began to clatter, and before he could stop himself he bent forward and kissed her on the mouth.

Instantly Emily's arms went around his neck, and she returned his kiss so fervently he was momentarily taken aback. He gripped her tighter and kissed her again and then again, with increasing passion. He felt an overwhelming desire for her flowing through him, rising in him. My God, he was suddenly as hard as a rock. He wanted Emily and with every part of himself. His whole body was throbbing for her, and he was stunned, thrown off-balance by this discovery.

Eventually they loosened their grip on each other and pulled apart breathlessly.

They stared at each other in amazement.

Emily's face was flushed, her eyes startlingly bright, and he saw with sudden clarity the love burning in them. Love for him. He touched her cheek and found it was red-hot under his caress, burning like her eyes burned. Impatiently he dragged her into his arms again, and his mouth sought hers roughly. They kissed with mounting passion. Their tongues met tantalizingly. He probed her mouth, devoured it. They pressed closer, their bodies cleaving.

Vaguely, dimly, at the back of his swimming mind, Winston remembered how he had always had the urge to undress her when they had been children. In a rush he recalled the long-forgotten games they had played in the attics here . . . secret, intimate, exciting games when he had experienced his first arousals. He thought of how his clumsy boy's hands had explored her little girl's body... he wanted to explore it again with the sure hands of the experienced man he now was, to touch every part of her, woman that she now was, to plunge into her, to possess her completely. His erection was enormous, and he thought he was going to explode. He struggled for control, knowing he ought to curtail their love-making at once, but he found he was unwilling to release her from his arms. He gave in to his feeling, kissing her face, her neck, her hair, touching her breasts, taut under the flimsy silk blouse.

It was Emily who finally broke the spell which held them enraptured with each other. She extricated herself from his forceful embrace, but ever so gently and with reluctance. She gazed up at him. Her expression was one of stupefaction.

"Oh, Winston," she whispered and reached out to touch his sensual, trembling mouth with two fingers. She let them rest there for a moment, as if gentling him.

Winston was speechless.

He sat rigidly on the bench, waiting for his excitement to subside. Emily was motionless at his side, looking up into his face. His eyes bored into her. telegraphing so much to her.

At last he managed, in a strangled voice thick with emo tion, "Emily, I—"

"Please," she whispered quaveringly, "don't say anything. At least not now." She glanced away, biting her inner lip, giving him a few moments to steady himself, to regain his composure. Then she stood up, held out her hand. "Come on," she said, "we'd better go inside. It's getting ever so late."

He said nothing but simply rose; and they walked up the steps in silence, holding hands tightly, each conscious of the other, while lost within themselves.

Emily was filled with euphoria.

He has noticed me again, she thought, her heart soaring. At last. Since I was sixteen, I've been waiting for him to see me as a woman. I want him. I've never stopped wanting him since we were children. Oh, Winston, please feel the same way as I do. Take me for yourself. I've always belonged to you. You made sure of that when I was a child.

Winston for his part was awash with all manner of conflicting emotions and turbulent feelings.

He was not only astonished at himself, but at Emily as well—staggered really. They had fallen into each other's arms a moment ago with such ardor and passion he knew that if they had been in more suitable surroundings, they would have made love. Nothing would have stopped them. And they had come together without premeditation.

Self-analysis and self-appraisal now edged into his whirling thoughts, cooling him down considerably. He came to his senses, asked himself how this could have happened. She was his cousin, after all. Well, his third cousin. And he had known her for his entire life, although he had paid httle attention to her over the past ten years. And inevitably he asked himself finally how he could feel so strongly about Emily when he was in love with Allison Ridley.

This thought nagged at him and maddeningly so as they mounted the long flight of steps. But when they stepped out onto the circular driveway, he let the thought go free as he saw Shane's red Ferrari hurtling around the corner. It slowed to a standstill with a screeching of brakes.

Shane rolled down the window and poked his head out, grinning at them. "Where have you two been?" he asked. "I've been looking all over for you, to say goodbye."

"Emily was feeling a bit bilious in that packed room, so we came out for'a breath of fresh air," Winston ad-libbed quickly. "Where are you off to in such a tearing hurry and at this early hour?"

"Like Emily, I was beginning to feel oppressed indoors. I thought I'd take a drive. To Harrogate. I have to say a few farewells ... to a couple of chums."

Winston's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He's going to see Dorothea Mallet, he thought. Some good that'll do him. He said, "Don't be late for Allison's dinner party. Eight sharp."

"I'll be there on time, don't worry."

Emily asked, "Will you be around tomorrow, Shane?"

"I don't think so, Emily." He opened the car door and got out. He took hold of her, hugged her tightly. "I'll see you in six months or so. Unless you come to New York first." He smiled at her fondly. "Aunt Emma just told me you're going to work for Genret. Congratulations, little one."

"Thank you, Shane, I'm excited about it." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "And perhaps I will get over to the States on my travels for Genret. You'll have to show me the town, you know!"

"That's a date," he laughed. "Take care of yourself, Emily."

"And you too, Shane."

"See you later, Winston," Shane said and got back into the car.

"Yes," Winston answered laconically. He looked at Emily oddly as Shane drove off. "You didn't tell me about Genret.' This was said fretfully, and he felt so unexpectedly gloomy, he was surprised at himself.

She said, "I haven't had a chance, Winston."

"Does it mean you'll be doing a great deal of traveling?" he probed, scowling at her.

"Eventually. Why?" Emily lifted a brow quizzically, secretly delighted by his reaction.

"Oh, I just wondered," he muttered. He realized, with a small shock, that he did not relish the idea of her roaming the world by herself, trotting off on buying trips for Cenret.

They fell silent again as they continued up the drive to the house, but just before they went inside, Emily ventured in a hesitant tone, "Is it serious? With you and Allison, I mean?"

"No, of course not," Winston exclaimed swiftly, then asked himself why he had told such a bare-faced lie. He was on the verge of proposing to Allison.'

Emily's face brightened. She said, "I'm sorry you're busy tonight. I'd hoped you'd stay and have dinner with us."

"I m afraid I'm stuck." Winston grimaced to himself, discovering to his further astonishment that he was no longer looking forward to the dinner party. He smiled with some wryness, then took hold of Emily's arm as she pushed open the back door, and swung her to face him. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"I have to take the girls back to Harrogate College after Sunday lunch here. I'm free in the evening," she volunteered and returned his steady gaze unblinkingly. Expectancy illuminated her face.

"How would you like to cook supper for a lonely bachelor? I could come over to your flat in Headingley, Emily," he suggested.

The smile slipped off her face, and she shook her head. "It's not possible, Winston. I've_> just moved in here with Grandy. Yesterday, actually. I'm getting rid of the flat. Otherwise I'd have loved to cook for you."

Winston stood staring down at her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He was swamped with mixed emotions. He. was positive she wanted him. He certainly wanted her. Urgently. Allison loomed up between them. Oh what the hell,

he thought, making a decision he hoped he would have no reason to regret later.

Tilting her chin, he kissed her quickly on the mouth. He said with a wide grin, "Then we're neighbors. Come over to Beck House tomorrow night, and I'll cook for you. We'll have a nice evening, I promise. What do you say?"

"I think it's a super idea, Winston," she said filling with happiness and excitement. "What time shall 1 come over?"

"As soon as you possibly can, darling."

Chapter Thirteen

The room was in total darkness.

Not even the merest sliver of light penetrated the tightly drawn curtains, and the lamps had been doused. He craved the darkness. It was like a balm to him. The darkness brought anonymity. He liked it that way. He could not bear to make love in the light anymore.

He lay absolutely still, with his eyes closed, flat on his back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms resting by his sides inertly. His shoulder barely touched hers. He could hear her breathing softly in unison with himself.

It was not working between the two of them.

And it would not work—he knew that and wondered why he was here at all. He really ought to leave. Make a graceful exit. Immediately. He swallowed, fighting back the nausea, wishing he had not downed two glasses of whiskey on top of all that champagne. His head was swimming and he was dizzy, but he was not drunk. In a way he regretted he was not.

She murmured his name, meltingly, pleadingly, repeating it several times, her fingers brushing up and down his arm.

He was motionless, saying nothing, endeavoring to find the energy to get up and dress and leave. He felt enervated, lethargic. The ghastly afternoon, with its extreme tensions and painful moments, plus the effort he had exerted to conceal his raw emotions, had vitiated him, undermined his stamina.

Now he felt an imperceptible movement close to him, but still he did not open his eyes.

She touched one of his nipples, tentatively at first, then more insistently, pinching it between her fingertips. Absently he moved her hand away, without bothering to explain that his nipples were not as sensitive as she obviously believed they were. But he had told her that before, hadn't he? Her hand rested on his chest for a moment, then fluttered onto his stomach, making gentle circular movements, creeping down in the direction of his crotch. He knew what she had in mind, what she was about to do next, but he lacked the will to stop her or to tell her he was leaving in a moment.

She began to stroke him. He hardly paid attention, drifting off into his thoughts. Vaguely he heard the rustle of sheets. She had slithered down the bed and was crouched over him. Her long hair brushed his thighs, and then her warm lips encircled him, enclosed him fully. She was a versatile lover. Despite his buzzing head, his queasy stomach, and his lack of interest in her, slowly, steadily, with infinite care, and painstaking deliberation, she managed to arouse him. And in doing so she took him by surprise. When finally she lifted her head and moved her lips higher onto his stomach, trailed them up over his chest to settle on his mouth, he found himself responding automatically. He returned her fervent kisses, his excitement mounting.

With suddenness, abruptness, he moved rapidly, holding her rightly against him, rolling them both over so that he was lying on top of her. His hands went into the cloud of dark hair, and he held her head in his hands, kissing her more deeply and thoroughly, their tongues grazing. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to look into her face pressed so close to his. His fingers left her hair, moved down to fondle her full, voluptuous breasts, her hardening nipples; he pushed his hands under her shoulder blades, then her buttocks, lifting her body, fitting it into the curve of his. He was hard enough to slide into her swiftly, easily, expertly. Together they found a rhythm, rising and falling, their movements growing swifter, more frenzied, gaining in momentum. Her legs went high around his back so that he could shaft deeper and deeper into the warmth of her.

The darkness . . . the blackness . . . welcoming him . . .

enveloping him. He was falling . . . falling into that endless, bottomless, velvet pit. Paula. Paula. Paula. I love you. Take me. Take all of me. All of my essence. Brilliantly clear images of her exquisite face flashed behind his eyes, were trapped beneath his lids. Paula, my darling, he cried silently, oh Paula ...

"Shane! You're hurting me."

He heard the voice as if from a long distance, and it was like a knife slashing at his viscera.

It brought him down. Brought him back to this room. And back to her. And it killed the mood he had so carefully created for himself and only for himself. His fantasy shattered around him.

He fell against her body and lay perfectly still. He was deflated, flaccid, all of his vitality draining away. At last he said in a low mumble, "I'm sorry if I hurt you, Dorothea. It seems I don't know my own strength." Perhaps you do, he added sardonically under his breath. Or rather your want of it. Instantly he was embarrassed by his lack of staying power, his inability to bring the act of love to its proper culmination for them both. Act of sex, you mean, he thought, and he shuddered. Revulsion trickled through him, for himself, for her, although she was hardly to blame.

Dorothea said, "Your watch strap was cutting into my back. But I suppose I shouldn't have said anything just then. You were on the edge, the verge of—"

He covered her mouth with his hand, gently but firmly, in order to stop the flow of words. He did not want to hear her apology. He did not say one single word, but just lay against her for the longest _smoment, his heart slamming against his rib cage, his throat tight with a strangling sensation. Thankfully she too was silent. Finally he lifted himself off her body, touched her shoulder lightly, and left the rumpled bed.

Shane went into the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, rilled with considerable relief. He fumbled for the switch, snapped on the light, blinked rapidly in the sudden intense glare. The room swam in front of him, and the white-tiled floor appeared to tilt upward to hit him between the eyes. The vertigo and the nausea returned.

He stumbled to the wash basin, leaned over it, and vomited. Blindly he searched for the tap with one hand and turned it on so that the sound of running water would drown out his retching. He retched and retched until he thought he had nothing left in his insides. When the nausea mercifully, subsided, he wiped his mouth with the washcloth and drank several glasses of cold water, braced himself against the sink, staring down, his eyes closed.

Eventually Shane lifted his head and saw himself in the mirror, and he did not like what he saw. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face puffy and congested, and his tousled black hair stood on end. He noticed a smudge of bright red lipstick on the side of his mouth and took the damp washcloth and scrubbed at it furiously, angrily. But his anger was directed solely at himself. It had nothing to do with Dorothea. This was not her fault. He was entirely to blame.

He could no longer make love to her successfully, or to any other woman for that matter. Something always happened to bring him back to reality, and when he realized it was not Paula in his arms, as he had fantasized, he fell apart, could not reach fulfillment. Sometimes, stupefied by drink, his vision and his senses blurred, he could somehow manage, but even these rare occasions were becoming rarer.

He stared at his face in the mirror, and without warning he was struck by panic and fear.

Was it always going to be like this? For the rest of his life? Would he never have a happy sexual relationship again? Was he doomed to lead an arid existence without a woman? Would he have to resort to celibacy to save face? To stave off that dreadful moment of embarrassment, such as the one which had just occurred in Dorothea's bed?

He was not impotent. He knew he was not afflicted in that way. It was a simple matter really—if his partner intruded into his thoughts, made her presence felt, no longer remained anonymous, then he lost his erection. Try though he did, he could not hold it long enough to satisfy her or himself. The woman he idolized impinged, edged in between them, rendering him weak and ineffectual, he who had always been considered a good lover. What would he do, for Christ's sake? How would he cure himself? Was there a cure? Did he need to see a doctor?

The silence in the room pressed in on him. He had no ready answers for himself in his awful predicament.

His anguish flared. God damn it! God damn it to hell! he blasphemed silently, and unexpectedly his eyes filled with tears of helplessness, frustration, and rage, startling him. And then instantaneously he was shocked and mortified by this shameful loss of control. For a split second he wanted to smash his fist into the mirror, to shatter that tearful image of himself staring out to mock him. He wanted to smash those finely tuned, crystalline images of Paula. Damn her. Destroy those indelible imprints of her that were stamped so strongly on his tormented, aching brain they seemed to control his life, affected everything he did. At times he felt hopelessly victimized by the vibrant inner vision of her face, the sound of her laughter, and her gentle voice that echoed endlessly in his head. But all were locked so securely in his imagination he could not eradicate them, no matter how hard he tried.

But he did not move. He kept his hand clenched at his side, the knuckles white, protruding sharply. Then he closed his eyes convulsively, no longer able to look at himself in this moment of weakness. He leaned against the wall to steady himself, was immobilized like this until he grew calmer, got a • grip on himself. Swinging around, he stepped into the shower stall, turned on the taps, let the water sluice down over him. And slowly but with an iron-clad determination, he emptied his heart and his mind, threw out every vestige of emotion, all feeling.

Minutes later he emerged from the steaming shower, took a bath sheet, and dried himself vigorously. He found a fresh towel, tied it around his waist, then searched the cupboard under the sink for the toilet kit he had left there weeks ago. He cleaned his teeth, ran the electric razor over his chin to remove his faint five o'clock shadow, splashed cologne on his face, and combed his damp hair.

He was refreshed, looked more like himself . . . coolly contained, smoothly in control once more. He stared at his reflection a fraction longer, wondering about himself. He was a strapping, healthy young man of twenty-seven, stood six-foot-four, and had a muscular body that was strong and powerful. He had an equally powerful brain to go with his splendid physique. And yet... he was so fragile really. The mind is a peculiar thing, he thought, it has such a delicate balance. And who can explain the logic of the heart?

Turning away, he took a deep breath, prepared himself for the inevitable scene with Dorothea. Today he had come to her against his own volition—he could not wait to leave her.

He opened the bathroom door, blinked as he walked back into the shadow-filled bedroom, adjusting his eyes to the
darkness. The room was silent, and he wondered if she had fallen asleep, prayed that she had. He groped around for his clothes on the chair where he had discarded them earlier, pulled on his underpants and socks, dispensed with the towel. He slipped on his shirt, buttoned it quickly, dragged his trousers up over his legs, and zipped them.

At this moment the bedside lamp flared into life, flooding die room with chilly brightness.

"You're not leaving!" Dorothea exploded. She sounded aghast, furious.

He pivoted.

He could not look at her. Unable to meet her gaze, which he knew would be hurt and condemning, he stared at the far wall.

"I have to go," he said after a short pause. He sat down on the chair and began to put on his shoes. He could feel her eyes on him.

"You've got a nerve!" she cried, sitting up violently, rattling the headboard as she did. She pulled the sheet around her body with an angry gesture. "You stroll in here unannounced, help yourself to my booze, bed me, fumble that, and leave me high and dry while you disappear into the bathroom for half an hour." She glared at him, added in the same harsh, accusatory tone, "Then you creep back in here and calmly proceed to dress in the dark as if you owe me nothing. You were obviously going to sneak off to your blasted dinner party!"

He winced. Sighing under his breath, he stood up and walked over to the bed. He sat down on the edge, took hold of her hand, wanting to be nice, to part with her in a friendly manner. She snatched her hand away and pressed it to her trembling mouth, attempting to quell the tears glittering in her dark eyes.

Shane said in his gentlest voice, "Come on, don't get upset. I told you last week about the dinner tonight. And I reminded you about it when I first arrived this afternoon. It didn't seem to bother you a few hours ago; you were very welcoming."

"Well, it bothers me now," she gasped, choking on her words. "I didn't think you'd leave me, not on your last evening in Yorkshire. Especially after we'd spent several hours in bed together. I thought we'd be having supper—we usually do—and that you would be sleeping here tonight, Shane."

He was silent. He glanced away uncomfortably.

She misconstrued his reticence. "I'm sorry I spoiled it for you, Shane. At the last minute, I mean," she whispered, her voice softer, more cajoling. She adopted a most winning and conciliatory demeanor. Please say you forgive me. I love you so much.
I can't bear it when you're angry."

"I'm not angry, and there's nothing to forgive," he muttered, striving for patience whilst longing to be gone. "Don't start flagellating yourself or donning a hair shirt. Look, it doesn't matter, honestly it doesn't, Dorothea."

She caught something strange in his voice. She was not sure what it was exactly, but it riled her nevertheless., "It matters to me," she snapped, her sweetness immediately evaporating. When there was no response from him, she cried heatedly, 'This afternoon finally proves it to me."

"Proves what?" he asked, sounding bored.

'That you can't make it with me—because there's another woman. You're in love with someone else, Shane, and I think you're a bastard for using me the way you have."

Stunned that she had unwittingly stumbled on the truth but trying to hide this, he stood up at once, his movements jerky. He edged away from the bed. "I haven't used you," he protested, his mouth tightening. He glanced at the door.

"I haven't used you," she mimicked, her. tone mocking, hard, her lip curling down with derision. "Of course you have. And, by the way, I think your friend Winston Harte is as big a bastard as you are for not inviting me to the dinner party tonight."

"He's not giving it—Allison Ridley is, and she doesn't know you or know about our relationship. You and I always agreed we would lead our own lives, with our own friends, and not become a special twosome," he exclaimed, his voice rising. "There've never been any strings attached to our relationship . . . that's the way you wanted it if I'm not mistaken."

Shane took a breath, curbed his increasing annoyance. "Besides you've never been interested in my chums before today," he reminded her with a cool indifference now, wishing she would not color everything with emotion.

"I've changed my mind. Please take me with you, Shane. I want to come. I really do. This is your last night. Please, darling," she begged, offering him a wistfully sweet smile, but it faltered in the face of his chilly expression, his rigid stance.

"You know that's not possible, not at this late hour. Anyway, it's a seated dinner. Look, don't try to make me wear a hair shirt—" He moved wearily toward the door. '

"I know I'm not welcome in your precious little clique!" she yelled, further losing her control. "My God, you all make me want to puke! The O'Neills, the Hartes, the Kallinskis . . . what a tight, toffy-nosed group you are. No outsiders permitted to join your exclusive club, to become part of your charmed circle. No room for us common folk among your snooty lot. Anybody would think you're royalty the way you all behave,' what with your airs and graces and pretensions. And your stinking money," she scoffed irately, her face ringed with bitterness. "You're just a bunch of rotten snobs—the lot of you. And bloody incestuous if you ask me, huddling together in the rarefied air of your posh compounds, shutting out the rest of the world. It's sick!"

Flabbergasted at her violence, he looked at her icily and with spiralling disdain. He was appalled at her words, her venom, but immediately held himself in check, deciding not to be provoked into retaliating.

There was an unpleasant silence.

"I've got to go. I'm extremely late." This was said evenly enough, but Shane was seething inside. He strode across the room, his blood boiling at her insults, threw his tie around his neck, picked up his jacket, and slung it over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry we're parting on such a bad note," he said, giving her a glance of condemnation, "but there seems to be nothing more to say." He shrugged. "I had hoped we could remain friends, at the very least."

"Friends!" she repeated shrilly, her temper blazing. "You must be crazy. Go on, get out! Go to your lady love. No doubt she'll be at your precious dinner!" She laughed hysterically through her blinding tears, then brushed her eyes, made an effort to cling to her last ounce of composure, without success. She swallowed a sob, cried, "I must admit, I'm curious about one thing! What makes you come crawling back into my bed all the time, hot and bothered and raring to go, when someone else has a claim on your heart? Is she a crown princess from one of the clans? A young lady of such refinement—so chaste and virginal—you wouldn't dream of sullying her? What's wrong, Shane, don't you have the guts to sleep with her until you're well and truly married and have the blessings of your families? Or could it be that she's not interested in you? Don't your fatal charms have any effect on her? Are you less than irresistible—" She bit off the end of her sentence when she saw the look of intense pain fly across his face, understanding that somehow she had struck the mark, albeit inadvertently.

"Shane, I'm sorry," she apologized at once, instantly contrite. She was genuinely concerned, afraid she had gone too far this time.

She leaped out of bed, struggled into her robe. "Shane, forgive me! I didn't mean it, didn't mean to be cruel, to hurt you. I love you, Shane. I have since the first day we met. Please, please forgive me. And forget what 1 just said." She started to weep.

He did not answer. Nor did he look at her again.

He left. The door slammed with finality behind him.

Shane hurried across the hall, let himself out of her flat, and ran down the stairs at breakneck speed. His head was pounding, and his stomach lurched as the nausea rose in him again.

He sprinted across the lawn, wrenched open the door of his car, and jumped in with agility. He drove off with a roar, his hands tightly gripping the wheel, his face set in angry lines, a muscle throbbing on his temple.

When he reached the Stray, the stretch of breezy open common ground in the center of Harrogate, he slowed down and parked.

Shane sat smoking for a few minutes, pulling himself together, calming his frazzled nerves, a remote look in his troubled black eyes. He stubbed out the cigarette impatiently, suddenly hating the taste of the nicotine. His head ached, reverberated with Dorothea Mallet's vituperative words. Her attitude had been extreme, uncalled for under the circumstances, but then that was her usual pattern. She had displayed her jealousy before, and by now he ought to be accustomed to her tantrums, her temperamental outbursts.

Quite unexpectedly it struck him that he had no reason whatsoever to chastise himself about his behavior toward her. He had always been considerate and kind to Dorothea. He was a decent man, and he had integrity and honor; furthermore he would never willingly hurt her or any woman.

He considered the lousy things she had said. In particular her comment about another woman in his life had been like a punch
in his stomach. But she was obviously stabbing in the dark, conjecturing, since she could not possibly know he loved Paula.
No one knew. It was his secret.

Shane's heart tightened as reality hit him in the face with some force. There was no chance that Paula would ever be his. She was most obviously very much in love with Jim Fairley. He had seen it written all over her face earlier in the day. Not only that, she was a mother now . . . they were a family. She had been transparently delighted to see him at the christening, yet despite her loving warmth, she had been preoccupied with her husband and her babies.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his face twisting in a grimace of mental anguish. His love for her was a hopeless love without a future. It had nowhere to go. He had known this for the longest time, and yet a faint hope that something might happen to change things had lingered in his mind. Of course it would not. He must put Paula Fairley out of his heart, obliterate her from his consciousness, as he had decided on the moors yesterday. It was not going to be easy, he was well aware. On the other hand it was imperative that he make the effort, draw on his inner reserves for strength. He had to make his sojourn in New York a new beginning ... it was his chance to make some sort of worthwhile life for himself. His resolve intensified.

At last Shane opened his eyes, swung his head, and gazed out the window, shaking off the memories of Paula . . . his dearest love. And a married woman, a mother, he reminded himself.

Blinking, he became conscious of his surroundings.

He noticed the daffodils blowing in the breeze that had lately sprung up—rafts of stinging yellow against the verdant green of the grass. I ought to have bought flowers for Allison, he thought absently, remembering the dinner party. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It read .seven-thirty. The shops were closed . . . and he was going to be late. But if he kept his foot down on the accelerator, he would make it in half an hour.

He switched on the radio, twiddled the knob to the BBC's classical station. The strains of the Pachelbel Canon filled the car as he swung it out onto the main road.

Within minutes the Ferrari was hurtling in the direction of the ancient cathedral town of Ripon where Allison Ridley lived. He gunned the engine forward, concentrating on the road ahead.

Chapter Fourteen

There was something of the actor in Shane O'Neill.

It was a talent inherited from Blackie, and he was able to fall back on that skill whenever it suited him. It did now.

He pushed open the front door of Holly Tree Cottage, took several deep breaths, donned a mask of geniality, and headed down the stoneflagged passageway.

He paused at the entrance to the living room, drew his inbred self-assurance around him, and stepped over the threshold.

At this instant he became what they expected him to be—a man without the slightest care, one who held the world in his arms.

Laughter sprang readily to his lips, a sparkle entered his brilliant eyes, and he exuded ebullience and bonhomie, strolling forward at a leisurely pace to join his closest male friends— Winston Harte, Alexander Barkstone, and Michael Kallinski. Allison and her women guests were nowhere in sight, and these three stood huddled in front of the window next to the refectory table set up as a bar for the evening.

Meandering across the floor, Shane glanced about with interest, struck at once by the beauty of this main room in the cottage, which was really two dwellings knocked into one. He remembered that Allison had recently finished decorating it, and she had done wonders with the place. The low, beamed ceiling and wide stone fireplace—both Tudor—gave the setting its real character, but the colorful cretonnes covering the sofas and chairs, the old pine furniture, and Sally Harte's dreamlike watercolors on the white-washed walls contributed much to its intrinsic charm. It was a rustic country room, free of pretensions and fussiness, yet eminently comfortable and cozy, the kind he liked. He made a mental note to congratulate Allison the minute he saw her.

As soon as Shane drew to a standstill in front of his friends, the banter started.

They joshed him unmercifully about being late and made innumerable innuenclos about the real reason behind his tardiness. He took it all with good humor, laughed good-naturedly, and shot back a few missiles of his own. The strain and tension eased out of his aching muscles, and he started to relax at last, feeling comfortable and at home with the three men. And within minutes he was responding fully to their warmth, affection, and friendship, and to the carefree mood, the jollity that prevailed here this evening.

At one moment he took a cigarette, brought his lighter to its tip, and as he did he thought fleetingly of Dorothea's virulent condemnation of his set, their world. Well, she had been correct in one sense—they were extremely clannish, he had to admit that. If they clung together, it was because they had been brought up with each other, had always been close and intimately involved on every level. Blackie, Emma, and David Kallinski, Michael's grandfather, had seen to that. They had been through a lot together in the early days at the turn of the century, sharing their terrible struggles and later triumphs, and it was from them that the unbreakable bonds of friendship sprang. That extraordinary trio, founders of three powerful Yorkshire dynasties, had been tight most of their lives, from the day they had met in fact, and devoted thereafter, right up to David's untimely death in the early sixties. Because their children and grandchildren had been thrown together since birth and in the ensuing years, it was only natural that a large number of them remained staunchly loyal, the dearest of friends, and constant companions.

What the hell, Shane thought, filling with a spurt of impatience with himself. Why do I worry about her opinions of us? This is the way we are, the way we live; and what's more we genuinely care about each other, deeply so. And we've always been there for each other in times of trouble and grief—-just as our grandparents were before we were born.

Winston, misunderstanding Shane's sudden silence, said to the others, "Okay, chaps, let's give him a breather. What would you like, Shane? A Scotch?"

"No thanks. Just soda water, please."

"What's the matter with you tonight?" Winston asked as he filled the glass. "It's not like an Irishman to be imbibing this innocuous stuff."

Shane grinned as he took the drink. "Too much champagne earlier. But 1 must say, none of you seem the worse for wear,
and you were all knocking it back like sailors on shore leave." Looking at Michael, he went on, "1 assume your parents are still in Hong Kong, since they weren't with you at the christening."

"Yes. They get back in two weeks, and then I leave for New York. I hope we can get together, Shane. Where will you be staying?"

"At Aunt Emma's Fifth Avenue flat until I find a place of my own. And I'll be bloody furious if you don't phone me." Shane now glanced past Winston. Valentine Stone, Michael's girlfriend, was coming back into the room from the garden, followed by Marguerite Reynolds and a blond girl. He guessed she was Allison s American friend and the reason for the dinner party. He waved to them, then took Michael's arm. "Do I notice a ring on Valentine's finger?"

"Yes, but it's on her right hand, not her left, you idiot!" Michael Kallinski made a face, chuckled. "You'll be the first to know when I decide to take that ghastly step, Shane."

Alexander cut in, "Just listen to the man . . . we all know she's got you where she wants you, Mike."

"You've got room to talk," Michael shot back. "Marguerite has you pinioned down in the same position, flat on your back in a stranglehold, gasping for air."

They all laughed.

Alexander flushed and retorted, "Don't be too sure." He hesitated, then volunteered, "One thing is certain though. Grandmother likes Maggie, approves of her. She thinks I should pop the question now before some other fellow steals her away from under my nose. Some confidence Emma Harte has in her grandson, I must say." Alexander shook his head, took refuge in his usual reserved shell, observing Maggie out of the corner of his eye. She looked stunning tonight in a scarlet pants suit, her light brown hair swept up in an old-fashioned pompadour. Perhaps he should take his grandmother's advice.

Shane, who had flinched inside at Alexander's words, said in a low voice, "Don't let her escape. Aunt Emma's right, she's quite a catch, Sandy, and such a nice girl."

Michael added, "And the world is full of predatory males, as we all know, Alexander. You'd better do what E.H. says before it's too late."

Shane swung to Winston. "And where's your lady love hiding herself."

"What?" Winston asked, pulling himself away from thoughts of Emily. He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Allison. Where is she?" Shane stared at him and went on, "I haven't said hello to my hostess yet."

"Oh! Yes, Allison. She dashed off to the kitchen just before you arrived," Winston said quickly, trying to cover his lapse. "She'll be back in a second. She went to see if the two local girls she hired for the evening are coping. In the meantime I'd better take you over to the guest of honor and introduce you; otherwise Allison'll have my guts for garters." Winston gave Shane a knowing wink. "Allison's friend lives in New York. If you behave yourself tonight, she might even agree to go out with you."

"I won't have time for women. I'll he far too busy with the hotel. Stop trying to fix me up, Winston." Shane remonstrated, then thought to ask, "Anyway, what makes you think I'd be interested?"

"Because she's rather nice," Winston replied.

Shane made no comment, followed his friend down the long room to the fireplace where the three women stood chatting.

The tall, slender blonde watched them approaching, trying not to give the appearance of doing so, instantly struck by Shane O'Neill's undeniable presence even from this distance. In fact she had been aware of him the minute she had returned to the living room. Allison had told her who and what he was . . . the young scion of a famous Yorkshire family, the most eligible of bachelors, and one who had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, the money to buy himself the world if he wanted. He also had the looks to take him wherever he wanted. And right into any woman's bed, if he so wished, she decided. Allison had not exaggerated.

Shane kissed Valentine and Marguerite, and Winston said, "Skye, I'd like you to meet Shane O'Neill. Shane, this is Skye Smith from New York."

They shook hands, exchanged greetings.

Shane said pleasantly with a friendly smile, "I hear this is your first trip to Yorkshire. Are you enjoying it?"

"I'm loving every minute. It's so beautiful . . . the Dales are breathtaking. Allison's whizzed me all over this past week, buying antiques, so I've seen a lot of your glorious countryside."

"Allison's the expert, so I'm sure she helped you find some really interesting things. You're in the same business, Winston tells me," Shane remarked.

"Yes, I have a small antique shop on Lexington Avenue, in the Sixties. And fortunately a lot of good customers who are hungry for English antiques and silver." She laughed lightly. "I've bought up half of Yorkshire, and now I'm' worrying about storing everything I'm having shipped home next week. My shop's going to be bursting at the seams."

Valentine said, "Allison told me you came across some beautiful old Victorian silver in Richmond. Surely you won't have a problem selling those pieces. And immediately."

"No, I won't," Skye said and gave them a detailed description of every item of silver now in her possession. Winston excused himself and ambled' off. Shane lolled against the fireplace, bored with the subject of antiques and only vaguely listening to the women's chatter. He studied the American girl. She was charming; certainly she was good-looking, Personable, and obviously very bright. Still he had known at once that she was not his type. Cool, pristine blondes who looked like Scandinavian ice maidens had never appealed to him much. He preferred dark exotic women. Like Paula.. He crushed the thought of her.

After a polite interval had elapsed, he said, "I really ought to go and find Allison. Please excuse me." With a brief nod he disappeared, went down the narrow hall, making for the kitchen. But as he passed the small intimate dining room, he spotted Allison through the open door. She was surveying the table intently. .

"There you are, Mrs. Ridley!" he exclaimed, striding inside, pulling her to him, enveloping her in a bear hug. "Congratulations! The cottage looks lovely. .Now, why are you hiding from me? I've begun to think you're punishing me for being so late."

"Not you, Shane darling. You can do anything—I'd never be angry with you."

"You'd better not let Winston hear you say things like that. You'll make him jealous."

The merriment left Allison's face, and she said in a tight voice, "I'm not so sure ..."

Shane threw her a questioning look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Allison shrugged, bent over the table, and moved a small silver bird closer to its companion, averting her head.

Shane's face was a study in perplexity as he waited for her to finish fiddling with the table decorations, to respond to his question. When she did not, he took her arm gently, turned her to him. He immediately perceived she was upset.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he murmured softly, staring down Into her bleak face.

"Nothing. Really and truly—" she began and broke off, wavering. Finally she said in a great rush of words, "Oh, I'm not going to lie to you, Shane. Winston's been funny with me since he arrived tonight. Not himself. Distracted." Her light gray eyes searched his face. "Did something happen this afternoon . . . something that might have upset him?" '

Shane shook his head. "Not that I know of, Allison."

"I think 'it must have. If it didn't, then his odd behavior must have something to do with me, with us. Perhaps he's lost interest in me."

"I'm sure you're wrong." ' ,

"I'm not, Shane. I know Winston almost as well as you do. Generally he is sunny-tempered, and he's warm and affectionate. We've been getting on wonderfully these last few months. So much so, I had the feeling he might propose soon. He's been sending out signals ... he told me how much his father liked me and, perhaps more importantly, Emma Harte. When he arrived earlier, I noticed a change in him ... he was different, preoccupied. He got here late, when he'd promised to come before the other guests to help me move the refectory table and do a few other things—and you know he's never late. That didn't matter of course. But he was cool, even a bit brusque, and naturally I was taken aback. He did soften during drinks, after Alexander and Maggie had arrived, but frankly he is distant. It's not like him in the least—being so moody, I mean."

Shane was more baffled than ever. He ran the events of the afternoon through his head, wondering if something had occurred which had disturbed Winston. But nothing untoward had happened to his knowledge, and Winston had seemed untroubled to him.

He said, "Listen, maybe it is something to do with business. That seems to be the most plausible explanation to me. Yes, it must be a business worry." He offered her a reassuring smile. "I'm convinced his attitude has nothing to do with your relationship. And he's certainly not lost interest in you. How could you think that?"

She looked at him for the longest moment and smiled regretfully. "A woman senses these things."

Shane exclaimed, "You're reading this the wrong way, imagining the worst." He took her hand, tucked it through his arm, and walked her to the door. "Come on, let's go back to the sitting room and I'll buy you a good stiff drink. I could use one myself." His eyes were warm with affection. "You'll see, Winston will be his old self with you."

"You sound more certain of that than I feel," she replied softly. But she brought a carefree expression to her face as she returned to her guests, clinging to Shane's arm, thankful to have his moral support.

Later in the evening, when they were at dinner, Shane decided-that Allison had been right in one respect: Winston was not entirely himself.

He sat at the head of the table, and although he was pleasant and charming, played 'the good host to the hilt, Shane detected
an abstracted look flickering behind his eyes, recognized the forced note in his laughter, the falseness behind his joviality.

To distract everyone's attention and to give Winston breathing space, Shane became the life and soul of the dinner party. He was gregarious, outgoing, witty, and amusing. He was particularly attentive to Allison, on whose right he sat, was pleased that she responded in a positive way, and appeared to be more relaxed and at ease as the evening progressed.

But it was she who brought the meal finally to an end when-after dessert she said, "Let's have coffee and liqueurs in the sitting room, shall we?"

"That's a splendid idea," Winston exclaimed, smiling at her more warmly than he had since his arrival. He was the first to rise and ushered Allison and the other women out of the dining room. Shane followed with Michael and Alexander at his heels.

Winston went immediately to the refectory table, where he began to pour different liqueurs for the women guests. Shane strolled over to him and, striving to be casual, said, "Make mine a Bonnie Prince Charlie, please."

"Since when have you been drinking that awful stuff?" Winston asked, looking up. He grinned, turned back to his task of pouring white creme de menthe over the crushed ice he had spooned into a goblet.

"Don't sound so disapproving. You used to like it as much as I did when we were kids, gulping it down wholesale when • Aunt Emma wasn't looking."

"Yes, and if I remember correctly, we both used to get bloody sick on it. But okay, if that's what you want." Winston filled a glass with the liqueur, handed it to Shane with another grin, and finished pouring cognacs for Michael, Alexander, and himself.

Shane stood watching him. At last he asked in a low voice, "Are you okay?"

Winston lifted his head sharply. "Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You've seemed a bit out of it tonight."

"It's been a long day, hectic. I am a bit weary, I'm afraid. Do me a favor,' toddle over to Skye and ask her if she's changed her mind about an after-dinner drink, whilst I dutifully dispense these to the others. Allison will be back in a minute with the coffee." Winston picked up the tray and walked across the room, whistling under his breath.

Shane's eyes followed him, narrowing thoughtfully. Winston seemed normal enough now, and perhaps he had spoken the truth when he had claimed fatigue. Shane sauntered over to Skye Smith, who sat on the wide stone hearth by herself. "You're not drinking. Try this," he said in a commanding tone, handing her the glass.

She took it, sniffed it delicately, and looked up at him questioningly.

"It's a Bonnie Prince Charlie," Shane explained.

"What's that?"

He laughed. "Drambuie. Go on, take a sip; it won't poison you."

She did as he said and nodded her approval. "It has an unusual taste. 1 like it. Thank you, Shane."

"Don't move. I'll be right back." He returned a moment later with a Drambuie for himself, sat down next to her, and clinked her glass with his. "Cheers."

"Cheers." Skye glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was handsome. Perhaps too handsome. Men who looked like Shane O'Neill terrified her. They were usually untrustworthy ... too much temptation fell into their paths.

Shane savored his drink for a minute, then put his glass on the hearth and asked, "Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?"

"No, not at all. And tell me something—why is Drambuie called Bonnie Prince Charlie?"

"Because when Bonnie Prince Charlie went to Scotland in 1745, trying to regain the throne of his ancestors, he was aided by a Mackinnon of Skye.' In gratitude Prince Charlie gave the man his o\vn recipe for his personal liqueur. Ever since then, the secret for its preparation has remained with the Mackinnons, and Drambuie gets its nickname from the legend. And speaking of the Isle of Skye, is that how you spell your name . . . sky with an e at the end?"

"Yes, but my name is really Schuyler. It's Dutch. A family name. I have a feeling my Mom thought plain old Smith needed jazzing up a bit." She smiled at him slowly.

"It's a very pretty name. It suits you," he said with a show of gallantry.

"Why thank you kindly, sir."

They fell silent.

Skye Smith was trying to decide whether she could suggest he call her in New York without appearing forward. She was not interested in him as a lover; on the other hand she had found herself drawn to him during dinner, almost against her will. He was entertaining, good company, and a delightful man, if a little vain and too sure of himself. But perhaps they could be friends.

Shane was still dwelling on Winston, discreetly observing him. He lounged on a sofa at the other side of the room, nursing his brandy, looking relaxed. Whatever problem had been bothering him earlier had apparently been resolved or dismissed as unimportant. He was laughing suddenly in a natural manner and teasing Allison. Shane noticed that her face was radiant. So much for all that, he thought, it was a storm about nothing. He filled with relief. He was going away tomorrow, and he did not like to think he was leaving when his dearest friend had troubles.

Skye finally spoke, interrupting Shane's contemplations. She said, "I hope this doesn't sound pushy or anything like that, but if I can be of help in New York, do feel free to call me." She added quickly, wanting to sound more businesslike, "The shop is listed under Brandt-Smith Antiques."

"That's very kind of you. I will," Shane said and startled himself with his ready acquiescence to her suggestion. He puffed on his cigar for a second; then, feeling the need to explain, he went on, "I don't know many people in New York. Just a couple of lawyers who work for our company. Oh, and I have an introduction to a man called Ross Nelson. A banker."

"Oh," she exclaimed.

Shane glanced at her, saw the surprise in her eyes. Or was it shock that had registered? "So you know Ross," he said, his curiosity flaring.

"No. No, I don't," she replied too swiftly. "I've heard of him, read about him in the newspapers, but that's all."

Shane nodded, and for a reason he could not fathom, he immediately changed the subject. But as they talked about other things, he could not help thinking that Skye Smith was much better acquainted with the notorious Mr. Nelson than she wanted him to believe. And he asked himself why she had felt the need to lie about this.

Shane O'Neill left Yorkshire the following morning.

It was dawn. The mist had rolled down from the moors and the higher fells to spread across the meadows like a mantle of gray lace, partially obscuring the trees and the drystone walls and the cottages nestling in the folds of the fields. And all were inchoate images, spectral and illusory under the remote and bitter sky. Dew dripped from the overhanging branches, glistened on the white wildflowers gleaming in the hedgerows, ran in little rivulets down the grassy banks at the sides of the lane.' Nothing stirred in the drifting vaporous mists, and there was an unearthly quiescence, an unmoving stillness lying over the whole of the countryside, and it was a dreamlike landscape . . . the landscape of his childhood dreams.

Gradually, from behind the rim of the dim horizon, the early sun began to rise, its streaming corridors of slanting light piercing outward to illuminate the bowl of that cold and fading sky with a sudden breathtaking radiance. And through the tops of the leafy domes of trees, caught in the distant shimmer of sunlight like a mirage, glittered the chimneys of Pennistone Royal. House of his childhood dreams. But there was another house in his childhood dreams ... a villa by the sea where they had laughed and played and dreamed away the careless carefree days of their childhood summers, where nothing had ever changed and time had been an eternity.

And she was always there with him ... at that villa high, on the cliffs above the sunlit sea, laughter in her eyes the color of the summer sky and gentleness in her smile that had truly been only for him. Dreamlike landscapes . . . dreamlike houses . . . dreamlike child of his childhood dreams . . . locked in his heart and mind for all of time . .  haunting him always, dim shadows on his Celtic soul.

He was going away now ... so far away . . . leaving them behind. But he never left them behind. He carried them with him wherever he went. . . and they would never change . . . they were his childhood dreams . . . Paula and Pennistone Royal and the villa by the sunlit sea . . .

The car sped on down the narrow winding country lanes, past the great iron gates of Pennistone Royal, on through the village of the same name, out now onto the main road. Shane glimpsed the familiar signs flying by ... South Stainley, Ripley, Harrogate, Alwoodley.

He slowed down as he roared into Leeds, although there was no traffic, no one abroad, deserted as it was at this hour and without a sign of life. Gray, grimy, vital Leeds, great industrial city of the north, the seat of Emma's power and his grandfather's and David Kallinski's family. ' Circling City Square, where the statue of the Black Prince dominated, he passed the post office and the Queen's Hotel and plunged on, down the short hill near City Station, heading toward the Ml, the road leading south to London. Shane picked up speed the moment he rolled onto the motorway, and he did not reduce it until he was nosing the car over the county boundary . . . leaving Yorkshire behind.

The garden was her magical place.

It never failed to give Paula a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, and it was therapeutic when she was frustrated or
needed a release from the stresses and tensions of business. Whenever she began to plan a garden, whether large ,or small, she gave free rein to her imagination, and every plot of ground that fell into her sure and talented hands was miraculously transformed, became a breathtaking testament to her instinctive understanding of nature.

In fact she was an inspired gardener. Flowers, plants, trees, and shrubs were woven into a tapestry of living color and design by her, one that stunned the eye with its compelling beauty. Yet despite her careful planning, none of her gardens ever looked in the least contrived.

Indeed there was a genuine old-world air about them, for -she planted them with an abundance of old-fashioned flowers and shrubs that were typically English in character. The garden, which she now called her own and which she had been working on for almost a year, was beginning to take on this particular look.

But for once she was hardly aware of the garden.

She stood poised at the edge of the terrace, gazing down the long green stretch of lawn, yet not really seeing it, an abstracted expression on her face. She was thinking of Jim. Their quarrel of last night had been dreadful, and although they had eventually made up—in bed, where they usually managed to put aside their mutual anger—she was still shaken. They had quarreled about Edwina. Again. And in the end he had won, since she was hopelessly weak where he was concerned, loving him the way she did. And so she had finally agreed to entertain Edwina tonight, to show her the house and the grounds, to offer her cocktails before they went out to dinner. But Paula wished now that she had been more resolute with him. In the early hours of the morning, after he had made love to her, he had cajoled, teased, and laughed her into agreeing to do as he wished. He had cleverly twisted her around his little finger, and she resented it suddenly.

Sighing, she walked purposefully over to the rockery she was creating, trying to shake off the remnants of the violent quarrel. I refuse to harbor a grudge, she told herself firmly. I've got to let go of my anger before he comes home tonight. She knelt down, continuing the work that she had started earlier that day, hell-bent on bringing order to that intracta-. ble pile of stone, filled with the intense desire to make this rockery as beautiful as the one at Grandy's seaside house.

As usually happened, Paula soon lost herself entirely in gardening, concentrating totally on the work, allowing the tranquility of nature to lap over her until she was enfolded by its soothing gentleness, at peace within herself.

It was as a child that Paula had discovered her love of the earth and all growing things. She had been eight years old.

That same year Emma had bought a house to use during her grandchildren's spring and summer holidays from school. It was called Heron's Nest, and it stood on the high cliffs at Scarborough, overlooking the pale sands and the lead-colored bay beyond, a piece of Victorian gingerbread with its intricately wrought wood portico, wide porch, large sunny rooms, and a sprawling garden that was a veritable wilderness when Emma had first taken title to the property.

Aside from wanting a place where she could spend the holidays with her young brood and enjoy their company, Emma had had another valid reason for purchasing Heron's Nest. She had long felt the urgent need to have her grandchildren under her complete control and influence for uninterrupted periods. Her objective was simple. She wanted to teach them a few of the essentials of life, the practicalities of everyday living, and to make sure that they understood the true value of money. Emma had for years found it intolerable that most of her children had grown accustomed to living in luxury without giving one thought to the cost of their pampered existences and that they were overly dependent on armies of servants to take care of even their simplest needs.

And so, in her inimitable way, she had devised a scheme when she had decided that her grandchildren must be brought up to be less spoiled, more self-reliant, and certainly down-to-earth where matters of money were concerned. "There's an old Yorkshire saying, and it goes like this—" she had remarked to her investment banker, Henry Rossiter, one day, "from clogs to clogs in three generations. Well, you can be damned sure that that's not going to hold true for my lotl" Immediately afterward she had signed the check for the house.

Heron's Nest was the answer to many things in her mind. And it would become her school. To this end Emma had seen fit to engage only one maid, a local woman from the town who would come every day. And she had told the rather jolly, plump Mrs. Bonnyface that her main task would be to take care of the seaside villa when the family was not in residence. Emma had gone on to outline her rather unorthodox plans had explained how she fully intended to run the house herself—with the help of her numerous grandchildren. Whatever Mrs. Bonnyface had thought of this unusual state of affairs, she had never said. She had accepted Emma's scheme with enthusiasm and had obviously felt privileged to work for the famous Mrs. Harte, if her general demeanor was anything to judge by.

Being clever and a dissembler of the highest order, Emma had not confided her intentions or motives in anyone else, least of all her grandchildren. Only after she had made the acquisition and hired Mrs. Bonnyface had she told them about Heron's Nest, but she had given glowing details, cloaked it with such an aura of glamour they had been agog with excitement. They regarded the whole idea of a house by the sea as a great adventure, since they would be alone with Emma and far away from their parents.

Emma had realized almost immediately that the regime she had instituted had come as something of a shock, and she had smiled inwardly as she had watched them floundering around with mops and buckets, carpet sweepers and brooms, furniture polish and dusters, and unmanageable ironing boards. There had been huge disasters in the kitchen . . . demolished frying pans, pots charred to cinders, and vile, unpalatable meals. They had grumbled about burned fingers, blisters, headaches, housemaid's knee, and other minor ailments, real and imaginary, some of which had sounded extremely farfetched to Emma.

But it was Jonathan who had come up with the most inventive and imaginative excuse for wriggling out of his allocated chores, on the day he had told her that he had strained his Achilles tendons mowing the lawn, and was far too crippled to do any more work for days. Emma had been both startled and impressed by his cleverness. She had nodded most sympathetically. And to prove to this canny little boy that she was so much smarter than he believed she was, she had explained to him in diabolically graphic terms exactly how strained Achilles tendons were treated. "And so, since you're in such dreadful agony, I'd better drive you down to the doctor's office so that he can get to work on you immediately," she had said, reaching for her handbag and the car keys. Jonathan had swiftly suggested that they wait for a few hours, just in case the pain went away. Seemingly it did. He had made a stunningly rapid recovery, apparently not relishing the prospect of spending the remainder of the spring uncomfortably encased in a plaster of Paris cast reaching from the tip of his toes to his waist—or of being left behind with Mrs. Bonnyface when his cousins returned to their respective schools and his grandmother returned to Pennistone Royal,

During those first few weeks at the holiday house in Scarborough, they soon settled down to a steady routine. The girls quickly began to show a certain proficiency in their housework and cooking, and the boys readily learned to cope with the heavier household work, weeding the garden and mowing the lawns. Not one of-them was ever permitted to shirk his or her duties. Emma was not the type to stand any nonsense for long, and she was relatively strict, showed no favoritism whatsoever.

"I've never heard of anyone dying from scrubbing a floor or polishing the silver," she was fond of saying if one of them dared to complain or invent an imaginary.illness as Jonathan had done. The recalcitrant child who had screwed up enough nerve to protest or fib would instantly blanch under her steely green gaze, remembering Jonathan's narrow escape.

And when the time came for them all to pack up and leave the seaside house, Emma had congratulated herself, had admitted that they had been real troupers indeed. They had put on good faces and had truly pulled together to please her. As far as she was concerned, the experiment had proved to be an unconditional success. Every year thereafter, when the harsh Yorkshire winters gave way to the warmer weather, she had gathered them up and carted them off to Scarborough.

Eventually the Harte cousins and the O'Neill and Kallinsld grandchildren became regular visitors. Even they were given their fair share of chores, and they had had no choice but to pitch in cheerfully when they arrived to spend July and August by the sea. They quickly came to understand that they would not be invited back if they did not comply with Emma's wishes and pull their weight.

The children had called Emma "The General" behind her back, and indeed they had often felt as though they were living in an army camp because of her stringent rules and regulations. On the other hand they had truly enjoyed themselves during those happy, carefree years, and they had ended up having such enormous fun together that even the chores were regarded as games. Much to their parents' astonishment and Emma's immense satisfaction, each one had come to so look forward to those sojourns in the little seaside town that they vociferously declined any other holiday invitations. They had insisted on returning to Heron's Nest the minute Emma opened up the house.

Despite her own terrible addiction to work and little else, . Emma had been shrewd enough to recognize that her "small band of brigands," as she called them, needed plenty of opportunities to let off steam and lots of pleasurable pursuits to fill the long summer days. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know," she would constantly repeat to Mrs. Bonnyface and then proceed to invent exciting projects in which she and the children could participate together.

She took them on interesting expeditions up and down the coast, to Whitby, Robin Hood's Bay, and Flamborough Head,-and gave them numerous other rewards for their strenuous endeavors. There were visits to the local picture house and the town's little theater; they went for leisurely picnics on the clifis, sailed in the bay, and had swimming parties on the beach. Frequently they went fishing with the local fishermen and were thrilled when they were allowed to keep some of the catch. On those propitious days they would return in triumph to Heron's Nest, where they would cook their small and meager fish for Emma's supper, and she had eaten them as if they had been prepared by the French chef at the Ritz. When the weather was overcast and the seas rough, Emma had organized egg-and-spoon races and treasure hunts in the garden; and, since she truly understood the acquisitive nature of children, she made certain that the treasure was extra special and worth finding. And she had always provided more than enough items for each child, had usually dropped blatant clues to those who were coming up empty-handed and wearing tearful or disappointed expressions. On rainy days when they had to stay indoors, they had played charades or put on their own plays.

One year the boys formed their own band.

They called themselves the Herons, and Shane and Winston were the chief instigators and organizers. Shane appointed himself the band leader. He was also the piano player and the vocalist. Alexander played the drums and cymbals, Philip blew the flute, Jonathan scraped the violin, and Michael Kallinski warbled the harmonica. But it was Winston who thought he was the most important and talented member of the ensemble. He adopted the trumpet as his own and fervently insisted he was the new Bix Beiderbecke, inspired no doubt by a film Emma had taken them to see called Young Man with a Horn. Sarah wondered out loud where he had learned to play, and Emma smiled thinly and said that he hadn't, and that was the trouble. And at times she thought her eardrums would burst when the cacophony of sound filled the house during practice times, which seemed never ending to her.

Having caught a glimpse of them assembling on the stage, from her bedroom window, Emma immediately changed into a silk afternoon dress and hurried down the corridor to the girls' rooms. She insisted they wear their best cotton frocks in honor of the auspicious occasion, and they had all trooped out just after four o'clock dressed in their finery,. curiosity and expectancy written on their pretty young faces.

As Emma listened to the Herons give their renditions of current popular songs and a couple of old ballads, she found herself enjoying the concert and was rather surprised to discover that they really weren't such bad musicians after all. At the end of their recital, she praised the boys, laughing with merriment as she showed her delight in them. The boys laughed too, and taking her lavish accolades to heart, they had gone on playing relentlessly all that summer, much to the horror of the girls. Whenever they heard them rehearsing, they made snide remarks, sniggered loudly, and declared that the Herons stank to high heaven.

Shane like Winston was exceptionally vain about his musical accomplishments and most especially his voice. He soon made certain that the critical young females were suitably intimidated. One night all of them found a foul-smelling object in their beds, ranging from frogs and dead fish with glassy eyes, to raw onions and bags of sulphur. Shane's retaliatory measure worked. After that dreadful night of changing sheets, opening the windows wide, and shaking Emma's good perfumes all over their rooms, none of the girls dared to use the word stinking for the rest of the holidays. At least certainly not in reference to the Herons.

And slowly but very deliberately over these years, Emma had strived to instill in every child the importance of the team spirit, playing the game, being a good sport, and abiding by the rules. Duty and responsibility were words forever on her lips, for she was resolute in her determination to arm each and every one of them with sound principles and the proper precepts for the future when they became adults. She taught them the meaning of honor, integrity, honesty, and truthfulness, amongst so many other things. But her frequently strong and tough pronouncements were always spoken with an underlying kindness, and she gave them a great deal of love and understanding, not to mention genuine friendship. And it was a friendship most of them were never to forget for the rest of their lives. Deep in her heart Emma regretted that she had neglected her own children at certain times in her life, when they were in their formative years and growing up. She wanted her grandchildren to benefit from the mistakes she had made in the past, and if some of this washed off on her great-nephews and nieces and on the grandchildren of her closest friends, then so much the better.

But of all the years they had spent in the tall old villa on the cliffs, that very first spring of 1952 had been the most meaningful to Paula, and it would live in her heart and mind always. That particular year she became aware of her affinity with nature and her overwhelming desire—the need in her really—to make things grow.

One blustery Saturday in April she wandered out into the garden with little Emily, whom Emma had put in her charge that day. Paula glanced around, her eager young eyes keenly observing, newly perceptive. The undergrowth had been cut away, the hedges neatly trimmed, and the lawns mowed to such perfection by the boys that they resembled bolts of smooth emerald velvet rolled out to touch the perimeters of the high stone walls. The piece ofland behind the house was now uncommonly immaculate—and totally lacking in character.

She was amazed at herself when she unexpectedly realized how the garden could look if it was correctly planted. The eight-year-old girl had a vision, saw reflected in her child's imagination an array of textures and shapes and great bursts of color . . . luscious pinks and mauves, blazing reds and blues, brilliant yellows, warm ambers, oranges, and golds, and cool clear whites. She instantly envisioned dazzling mixtures of flowers and shrubs . . . plump bushes of rhodo-'dendrons with their delicately formed petals and dark polished leaves . .. pale peonies, waxlike in their perfection . . . splayed branches of azaleas laden down with heavy bright blossoms . . . masses of stately foxgloves brushing up against merry tulips and daffodils . . . and hugging cozily to the ground, dainty beds of pansies, primroses, and violets, and the icy little snowdrop scattered randomly under the trees.

And as she saw all this in her mind's eye, she knew what she must do. She must create the most beautiful garden—a garden for her Crandy. And it would be filled with every flower imaginable, except roses of course. For some unknown reason her grandmother hated roses, detested the smell of them, said they made her feel nauseous and she could not stand to have them in her houses or her gardens. She rushed into the house, bursting with excitement, her young face flushed, her eyes sparkling. Paula raided her money box, hurriedly breaking it open with her embroidery scissors.

As the pennies and threepenny bits and half crowns and shillings came tumbling out, Emily cried fretfully, "You'll get into trouble when Grandma finds out you've smashed your new money box and stolen the money."

Paula shook her head. "No, I won't. And I'm not stealing it. All this is mine. I saved it from my weekly pocket money.' Armed with her precious hoard and with Emily trotting faithfully after her, she walked purposefully into the town.

As it turned out, Emily became something of a nuisance in Scarborough, and Paula soon began to regret bringing her along. Emily wanted to stop for mussels and winkles at the shellfish stand, then for lemonade at a nearby cafe, claiming she was hungry and thirsty, and in a burst of willfulness she stamped her foot.

Paula gave her a stern look. "How can you be hungry? We've just had lunch. And you ate more than anybody.

You're growing more like a fat little porky pig every day." She hurried on, leaving Emily trailing behind, pouting.

"You're mean!" Emily yelled, and she increased her pace, endeavoring to keep up with her cousin's longer strides.

Paula glanced back over her shoulder and said, "I think you must have a tapeworm."

This was announced so suddenly and so fiercely that Emily stopped dead in her tracks. After a moment's shocked silence, she began to run after Paula as fast as her little legs would carry her. "What a horrid thing to say!" Emily shouted at the top of her lungs. She was terrified by Paula's words, and the mere thought of some huge worm growing inside her propelled her forward with urgency. "I don't have a worm! I don't!" She caught her breath and gasped, "Do I, Paula? Oh please, please tell me I don't. Can Grandma fish it out of me?"

"Oh, don't be so silly!" Paula snapped with growing irritation, intent on her purpose, anxious to find a flower shop selling bulbs and plants.

"I don't feel well, Paula. I'm going to be sick!"

"It's all that bread-and-butter pudding."

"No, it isn't," Emily wailed. "It's thinking about my worm. I feel awful. I'm going to throw up," the child threatened. Emily turned ashen, and her huge eyes swam with tears.

Paula was instantly filled with chagrin. She did love little Emily, and she was rarely unkind to her. She put her arm around the five-year-old's heaving shoulders and stroked her soft blond hair. "There, there, don't cry, Emily. I'm sure you don't have a tapeworm, really I am. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Eventually Emily stopped crying and searched the pocket of her cardigan for a handkerchief. She blew her nose loudly, then put her hand trustingly in Paula's and trotted along next to her quietly, tamed and subdued as they walked along the sea front past the many quaint old shops. At last she plucked -up her courage and ventured timidly in a whisper, "But just suppose I do have it? What will I do about my—"

"I forbid you to discuss your nasty worm, you horrid little girl!" Paula exclaimed, her impatience returning. "You know what, Emily Barkstone, you're a pest. A terrible pest. I may send you to Coventry if you don't shut up."

Emily was crushed. "But you always say I'm your favorite. Do you mean I'm your favorite pest?" Emily asked, hurrying to
stay in step, gazing longingly at her older cousin, whom she worshiped.

Paula started to laugh. She pulled Emily into her arms and hugged the small round child. "Yes, you're my favorite pest, Apple Dumpling. And because I know you're going to be a good girl and stop behaving like a spoiled baby, I'm going to tell you a very, very special secret."

Emily was so flattered that her tears ceased and her green eyes widened. "What kind of secret?"

"I'm going to make a garden for Grandy, a most beautiful garden. That's why we came to Scarborough, to buy the seeds and the things I need. But you mustn't say anything to her. It's a big, big secret."

"I promise, I promise!" Emily was excited.

For the next half hour, as the two little girls roamed from florist to florist, Paula kept Emily completely enthralled. She was articulate as she spoke about the wonderful things she was going to plant in her garden. She described the colors and the petals and the leaves and the scents of the flowers in detail, and Emily was so utterly enchanted and delighted to be part of such a grown-up enterprise she soon forgot about the tapeworm. Slowly, with painstaking care, Paula finally settled on her grandmother's favorite flowers and made her purchases. They left the last flower shop with a bag brimming with bulbs and packets of seeds and gardening catalogs.

When they reached the top of the street, Emily looked up at Paula and smiled with great sweetness, her round little face dimpling. "Can we go to the winkle stand now then?"

"Emily! You're being a pest again! You'd better behave yourself,"

Emily paid no attention to this remonstration. "I've got a better idea. Let's go to the Grand for tea. I'd like that. We can have cream puffs and cucumber sandwiches and scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream and—"

"I don't have any money left," Paula announced with firmness, hoping to demolish this idea immediately.

"Scribble on the bill like Grandma does," Emily suggested.

"We're not going to the Grand, and that's final. So shut up. And look, Emily, stop dawdling . . . it's getting late. We'd better hurry now."

By the time the two little girls arrived at Heron's Nest, they had become firm friends again. Emily immediately volunteered to help, wishing to ingratiate herself with her cousin,  as always seeking Paula's approbation and her love. She crouched on the ground, offering unsolicited advice in her piping child's voice. After watching Paula for a while, Emily said, "I bet you've got green fingers, if anybody does, Paula.'

"It's a green thumb," Paula corrected without looking up, intent on her work. And she continued digging into the rich soil, planting her first flowers with supreme self-confidence, never doubting for a moment that they would flourish and grow. She was gathering up the garden tools when Emily startled her as she leaped up and let out a wild scream of terror.

"Oh! Oh!" Emily screeched, jumping up and down and brushing her skirt in a frantic fashion. "Oh! Oh!"

"What's wrong with you, you silly thing? You'll have Grandy out here in a minute, and then the garden won't be a surprise."

"It was a worm! Look, there near your foot! It was crawling on my skirt. Ugh! All slimy and wriggly." Emily had gone as white as chalk and she was trembling.

Paula was struck by her second inspired idea that day, and she cleverly seized the opportunity. She grabbed the trowel and jabbed at the worm, cutting it in half. She piled soil over it and gave Emily a cheerful and triumphant grin. "It must have been your tapeworm. I expect it left you of its own accord. And I've killed it, so now everything's all right."

Paula picked up the small box of tools and beckoning Emily to follow, she hurried up the garden path to the potting shed. She stopped suddenly and, after a minute's rapid thought, said, "But you'd better not mention anything about it to Grandy, or she might make you take some medicine just to be sure you don't get another."

Emily shuddered at the very idea.

Later that same summer, when Paula and Emily came back to the villa by the sea, they could hardly contain themselves when they saw the garden in full bloom. A profusion of flowers had sprouted up during their absence, and the many different species Paula had selected splashed the dark earth with their brilliant paintbox hues.

Emma was touched when, on their first day at Heron's Nest, the two girls led her through the garden, showing her everything that Paula had planted, looking up at her expectantly, watching her face for her reactions. Emily told her all about their trip into Scarborough, although she was careful to omit any mention of worms! Emma had been aware of their little expedition on that Saturday in the spring, but sne pretended to be surprised. She praised them both for being so clever, and, recognizing Paula's potential as a budding horticulturist! she had encouraged her to pursue her hobby.

And so Paula's long and passionate love affair with gardening began that year. She had not stopped planting, weeding, pruning, and hoeing since then.

With Emma's approval, she had cultivated vegetable and herb gardens on her grandmother's Yorkshire estate, and eventually she had created the now famous Rhododendron Walk. The Walk took her years to plan, plant, and grow, and it was another example of her determination to excel at whatever she did, and in this instance it was a rather spectacular example of that.

But of all the gardens Paula had created, the one at Heron's Nest remained the dearest.

She was reminded of it this afternoon, seventeen years after she had started it, as she stood up and stretched. She pulled off her gardening gloves, placed them on the wheelbarrow, and stepped back to regard the rockery.

Finally it's beginning to take shape, she thought. Making Edwin Fairley's garden beautiful was giving her as much pleasure as her first garden had done.

After Edwin Fairley's death, Jim had inherited his house in Harrogate called Long Meadow. It was here that Paula had come to live as a bride almost a year ago. Although the house was sound and in good repair, it was badly in need of remodeling as well as redecorating. Conversely Edwin Fairley had seen to it that his gardener had tended the grounds religiously. Nevertheless they were bereft of color since little replenishing had been done as flowers and flowering shrubs had died. Paula had seen these deficiencies the moment it became hers and had itched to start working on it. However, the house took precedence; yet somehow she managed to cope with both at the same time, bringing wholly new aspects and fresh dimensions to both.

Glancing at the herbaceous borders, she decided that her dogged toil over the last eleven months had been worthwhile. The garden was her private world, and here she found escape and emotional enrichment as her business and personal problems fled.

Well, for a short while. For the last hour or so she had not given one thought to their quarrel of the night before. Now the memory of their heated words edged back. The problem was that Jim could be so stubborn. But then so could she and very often to her own annoyance. We both have to be more flexible, she thought; otherwise we're always going to be at loggerheads about certain matters. The funny thing was they hadn't really had any disagreements before their marriage and no serious quarrels until the problem of Edwina had arisen. They had certainly locked horns about her. She loathed her aunt; Jim was much taken with her. Therein lay the problem.

Quite unexpectedly Paula remembered something her grandmother had said to her last year, words spoken with love immediately prior to her wedding. They echoed with great clarity in her mind.

"Love is a handful of seeds, marriage the garden," Emma had said softly. "And like your gardens, Paula, marriage requires total commitment, hard work, and a great deal of love and care. Be ruthless with the weeds. Pull them out before they take hold. Bring the same dedication to your marriage that you do to your gardens, and everything will be all right. Remember that a marriage has to be constantly replenished too, if you want it to flourish . . ."

Such wise words, Paula thought, turning them over in her mind. She closed her eyes. Their quarrel was a weed, wasn't it? So she must uproot it. At once. Yes, she must toss it aside before it took hold. The only way to do that was to dismiss their differences about Edwina.

Paula opened her eyes and smiled to herself. She felt better all of a sudden. She pulled off her muddy Wellington boots, put on her shoes, and went into the house.She loved Jim. He loved her. Surely that was all that really mattered. Her heart felt lighter as she flew up the stairs to the nursery and their children.

Nora the nursemaid who looked after the Fairley twins sat sewing in a rocking chair in the nursery. As Paula's smiling face appeared around the door she brought her finger to her lips and made a soft shushing sound.

Paula immediately nodded her understanding, mouthed silently, "I'll be back in a while. I'm going to take a bath."

After luxuriating in a hot tub for fifteen minutes, Paula felt rejuvenated. But as she dried herself vigorously, she had to admit that although the warm water had eased her tired body, this lovely sense of well-being sprang from the decision she had just made in the garden to be more understanding about Jim's feelings for Edvvina. Yes, it was the only attitude she could take; she saw that clearer than ever. To adopt any other stance would be utterly self-defeating. She would simply rise above it all, as Grandy would do in similar circumstances. Her grandmother was too big a woman to succumb to pettiness, and she would try her level best to act exactly in the same way.

Paula put on a toweling robe and went back into the bedroom. This was spacious, with a high ceiling and a bay window overlooking the gardens, and it bore no resemblance to the way it had looked when Edwin Fairley had been alive. The first day Paula had seen the room, her heart sank as she had stood staring in horror at the dark blueflocked wallpaper and the heaxy, ponderous mahogany furniture crammed into the space. The bedroom had reflected the rest of the Victorian house, which was a dubious monument to a bygone age. All of the rooms had been old-fashioned, dark, lifeless, and depressing. The house had oppressed her with its gloomy, shadow-filled rooms and antiquated furniture and ornate festooned draperies and ugly lamps. She had wondered dismally how she could ever live at Long Meadow with any degree of comfort or happiness, or bring up children in such a bleak and dreary ambiance.

But Jim had insisted they move in, and he had refused point-blank even to take one look at the lovely old farmhouse which Winston had found for her at West Tanfield. And so she had been obliged to acquiesce to keep the i peace, but only with the understanding that Jim allowed her carte blanche to renovate and redecorate the entire house. Fortunately he had agreed, and this she had done immediately before he had a chance to change his mind or tried to persuade her to live in the midst of the hopeless muddle of nondescript furnishings which his grandfather had so assiduously accumulated during his lifetime. The refurbishing of the house had been her parents' wedding gift to them. Her mother had helped her create a totally new look with such efficiency, boldness, and speed that even Emma had been surprised and somewhat amused by their ruthlessness. They threw out everything except a few good pieces of furniture, including Edwin's desk, a Venetian mirror, and a French Provincial armoire of light oak, as well as several relatively valuable oil paintings. The pale pastel colors she and Daisy had selected for the rooms instantly brought an airy lightness to the house and opened it up to introduce a feeling of great spaciousness and freedom. Pretty fabrics, porcelain and jade lamps, and the charming country antiques her mother had found added charm, liveliness, understated elegance, and comfort.

The dark blue bedroom was transformed into a bower of yellow, white, peach, and pale green, with these clear colors repeated throughout in the floral wallpaper and matching fabrics and in the Chinese lamps. Although Jim had voiced the opinion that the white carpeting was rather impractical, he had afterward acknowledged that the room was lovely and in perfect taste. And to Paula's relief he had liked the rest of the house.

Their bedroom looked sunny and restful this afternoon as she padded across the floor to the dressing table which took pride of place in the wide and curving bay window. She sat down and, after brushing her hair, applied her makeup in readiness for the evening ahead. Her thoughts lingered on her grandmother. How lovely she had looked at the christening; she had been so charming and gracious, so alive with energy and spirit that everyone else had paled in comparison. Jim had said the same things about her grandmother over dinner on Saturday night at the Red Lion in South Stainley, where they had gone to dine alone. Then he had lapsed into one of his strange silences for a few minutes, and she had known he was thinking of his grandfather.

Paula put down her lipstick, swiveled in the chair, and sat staring into space, remembering the night Jim had first brought her to this house to meet Sir Edwin Fairley K.C.

The scene played for her again, vividly alive in her mind.

He had been dozing in front of the fire in the small, pine-paneled library, and he had roused himself when they arrived, had walked across the floor, smiling warmly, his hand outstretched, a frail, whitehaired old man, lovely in his gentleness and courtesy. When he had been only a few feet away from her, his step had faltered as he had seen her more clearly in the dimming light. Shock struck his face, and he had looked as if he had seen a ghost as Jim had introduced "them. And of course he had. He had seen a reflection of Emma Harte in her, although she and Jim had not understood this at that time. But he must have dismissed the resemblance as mere coincidence because he had recovered himself almost immediately. And then during drinks he had asked her what she did, and she had said she worked for her grandmother, Emma Harte, as Jim did, but that she was employed at the stores. He had started violently in the chair, stifled a gasp, and stared at her more intently. His eyes were suddenly alive with burgeoning interest and an unveiled, avid curiosity. He had asked her about her parents and her life, and she had answered him frankly. He had smiled and nodded and patted her hand and told her she was a lovely young woman, that he approved of this match. She had met him several times after that first occasion, and he had never been anything but welcoming, obviously overjoyed to see her. After she and Jim had broken up, he had apparently been disconsolate and extremely distressed as their rift had widened, Jim had told her.

Sir Edwin had died before they had reconciled and then married, with Emma's blessing.

She had asked her grandmother innumerable questions about Edwin, once their old story was out in the open and no longer relegated to the closet along with the other skeletons Emma had hidden there.

Emma, who had hitherto glossed over certain aspects of her early life, had suddenly been quite willing to talk, and she had been surprisingly candid. She had told Paula how she had become involved with Edwin when she had been a servant at Fairley Hall, how they had drawn together after both of their mothers had died. She spoke of the moors and the Top of the World and the cave where they had sheltered from the raging storm and where Edwin had seduced her. "Oh, but Edwin Fairley wasn't a bad person," Grandy had said to her only a few weeks ago, when they had been discussing things again. "Just terribly, terribly weak, and afraid of his father, and hidebound to his class. Naturally. That was the way it was in those days. We're going back over sixty years, you know. Still, I've often wished that he hadn't been so cowardly, that he had made some sort of effort to help me when I was carrying his child. Then perhaps I wouldn't have hated him so much."

Emma had shrugged. "But there you are, that's the way it happened. I survived, didn't I? I was sixteen and about to have an illegitimate child, and because I didn't want to bring shame to my father, I ran away to Leeds. To Blackie. He was my only friend in my dreadful predicament. And Laura, of course, though Blackie wasn't married to my lovely Laura at the time. I had the baby, obviously. You know the rest."

Paula had asked her why she had called the child Edwina. "A peculiar, rather unfortunate slip of the tongue," Emma had replied with a dry laugh. "When I wasn't thinking. Or rather, perhaps I should say when I was thinking about Edwin."

"But how on earth did you manage, Grandma?" Paula had next asked, her eyes full and her heart aching as she had pictured
the young Emma's awful ordeal, one she had had to face alone and penniless and without her family.

"Ah well, I had a couple of things going for me," Emma had remarked with an odd smile, "and they pulled me through." Paula had quietly insisted that she elaborate further, and Emma had said, "Well, let's see. I had my strength of character, my physical stamina, a few brains, not such bad looks, and most importantly an implacable will to succeed. Plus a hell of a lot of courage, now that I think about it. But that's enough of my life story today." And at this point Emma had brought the conversation to an abrupt halt.

Now Paula thought: Edwin Fairley was not only weak, he was unconscionable in the way he treated her. She shifted her thoughts to her grandmother and was overwhelmed with pride and enormous love for her. Emma Harte had been strong, and because of her great strength and her immense courage, she had conquered the whole damned world. She had stood tall and still stood tall. Edvvina suddenly flashed through her mind. That child born a Fairley had caused Emma nothing but heartache from the day she had been born. And that's one of the reasons I can't bear being near her, Paula muttered. Why doesn't Jim understand? she asked herself and squashed this question instantly. Edwina had caused her problems recently, but only because she herself had allowed that to happen. Edwina is insignificant in the scheme of things. Grandy said so weeks ago,
and as usual she is absolutely right.

The clock struck the half-hour. Paula glanced at it, saw that it was four-thirty. She had no more time~to waste, she realized, pulling herself away from her reflections. Jumping up, she went to her clothes closet, found a pair of gray flannel pants and a white silk shirt, dressed in them swiftly. Her step had a ring of decisiveness as she walked across the upstairs hall and into the nursery.

Nora peered out of the tiny kitchen, once a large cupboard that Paula had had remodeled into a nursery pantry. She was holding a baby's milk bottle and said, "I was about to feed them, Mrs. Fairley."

"Then I'm just in time to help you, Nora." Paula bent over the cot nearest to her. Tessa was now wide awake, gazing up at her through eyes as stunningly green as her great-grandmother's, and she suddenly began to gurgle and kick her little fat legs in the air. Paula picked up her daughter, holding her tightly, kissing the child's -fuzzy head and soft downy cheek, her heart clenching with love. She held Tessa for a second longer before returning her to the cot. Immediately the baby girl began to cry.

Paula glanced down at Tessa, and there was joyful laughter in her voice as she said, "Well, my goodness, aren't you the rambunctious little one, Miss Fairley. But we don't play favorites in this family. I have to give your brother a few kisses too, you know, and a little bit of attention as well."

Almost as if she had understood, the baby girl stopped her wailing.

Paula stepped over to the other cot to see Lome staring at her solemnly. She lifted him out, hugging him as fiercely as she had his sister, experiencing the same profound emotions of protectiveness and tender love.

"Oh, you darling," she whispered against his cheek, so warm and wet with slaver. "Your father is right, you're a little poppet." She kissed Lome, held him away •from her, and shook her head, grinning broadly at him. "But you're always so serious, Lome. You remind me of a little old man. Goodness me, you have such ancient worldly eyes, and you gaze at me as if there's nothing you don't know."

Paula walked over to the small loveseat in front of the windows and sat down. She bounced Lome up and down on' her knees and the baby seemed to enjoy this, since he at once started to chortle and slaver, and he waved his clenched fists as if he was happy and glad to be alive.

"I'll feed Lome since I have him, Nora, and you can take care of his more vocal sister," Paula said.

"Yes, Mrs. Fairley." Nora smiled at her, glanced over at Tessa's cot. "She is a little minx, I must admit. She certainly wants to make sure we all know she's here."

Paula and Nora chatted desultorily about the babies and matters pertaining to their care as they fed the twins. At one moment Paula explained that she had adjusted her timetable and office hours again so that she could fit in with the schedule the twins were currently following. Then she went on, "So I'll be home early every day to help you feed and bathe them. But I won't be able to spend bath time with you tonight, I'm afraid, Nora. We're having guests for drinks before we go out to dinner."

"Yes, I understand, Mrs. Fairley." Nora brought Tessa upright in her arms. She laid the baby against her shoulder and patted her back.

The little girl burped loudly several times.

This brought a smile to Paula's face.

Nora said, "Isn't she a pickle! She'll find a way to make herself heard, no matter what. But she's a good baby; so is Lome."

Paula nodded. "Let's be thankful for that. But, you know, both my mother and my grandmother seem to think that Tessa's going to be the maverick in the family." She smiled to herself, mulling this over, and leaned back against the cushions, concentrating on Lome.

Paula cherished these quiet times with her children, away from the bustle and frantic pace of her hectic working life. All was peace and gentleness in the large yet cozy nursery, with its white-painted walls and furniture, with blue and pink accents, and nursery-rhyme paintings hanging on the walls.

Golden sunlight filtered in through the filmy curtains blowing gently in the light breeze, and there were the mingled smells of babies, talcum powder, boiled milk, freshly ironed clothes permeating the air. She looked down at her son, so contentedly sucking on his bottle, and stroked his small fair head. How lucky I am, she mused. I have so much to be thankful for—these adorable healthy beautiful babies . . . Grandy and my parents ... a job that excites me, and most important of all the most wonderful husband. Quite suddenly she couldn't wait for Jim to get home from the newspaper so that she could tell him how much she loved him and how much she regretted their ridiculous quarrels about their aunt.

I'm glad everything's gone well on your first day, Emily, but don't overdo it this week. You sound awfully tired," Paula said. "Please try and pace yourself properly." She sat back in the chair, dragging the telephone across the white wicker desk as she did.

"Oh yes, I will, don't worry," Emily exclaimed, her voice rising slightly as it came over the wire. "Grandy's already told me to keep regular office hours, not to try and gulp every-. thing down all at once. But it's so exciting here at Genret, Paula, and I've so much to absorb and leam. Len Harvey is a super person, we're going to get on fine together." He says we'll probably go to Hong Kong next month. On a buying trip. We may even go into mainland China. Something to do with purchasing pigs' bristles or whiskers."

Paula's laugh rang out. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Brushes. Made of pig's bristles. They're the best, so I understand. Paula . . . 'it's quite amazing here. I hadn't realized how much merchandise we bought abroad. Genret is the biggest importing company in England. Well, one of the biggest. We stock everything . . . false eyelashes, wigs, cosmetics, silks and satins, pots and pans—"

"Not to mention pigs' whiskers," Paula teased. "Yes, I knew that, Emily, and I think this job is going to be marvelous for you. A lot of responsibility—but I know you can handle it. To tell you the truth, Apple Dumpling, I miss you already, and this is only your first day over there."

"I feel the same way. I shall miss working with you, too. Still, it's not as if we're disappearing from each other's lives.

What made you call me Apple Dumpling just then? You haven't for years."

Paula smiled into the phone. "I've been gardening today, making a rockery, and I kept thinking about the first garden K planted ... at Heron's Nest. Do you remember that day I took you into Scarborough—"

"How could I ever forget it. I've been terrified of worms ever since," Emily cut in with a light laugh. "And I was an apple dumpling then, wasn't I? More like a roly-poly butter-ball."

"But not anymore, little one. Listen, would you like to join us for dinner tonight? We're going to the Granby ... at least I think that's where Jim's decided to take us."

"I'd love to, but I can't, I'm afraid. Anyway, who's us?"

"Sally, Anthony, and Aunt Edwina."

"Oh God, I don't envy you, Paula," Emily groaned. "I would come if I could, just to give you moral support. However—" She broke off and giggled. "I have a rather special date."

"Oh! Who with?"

"My secret lover."

"And who's that?" Paula asked quickly, her curiosity aroused.

"If I told you, he'd no longer be my secret lover, now would he?" Emily replied mysteriously. "He's someone extra special and gorgeous, and when the time comes—if it comes, that is—you'll be the first to know." Laughter shaded her voice.

"Have I met him?" Paula probed, as usual feeling protective of Emily.

"I refuse to say one more word about him." Wanting to change the subject, Emily asked in a more sober tone, "By the way, why did Grandy go to London this afternoon?"

"She said something about pulling a new wardrobe, together, for her trip with Blackie to far-flung places. Why do you ask?"

"That's what she said to me, but I just wondered if there was another reason. She always tells you everything."

"What other reason could there be?" Paula asked, sounding baffled.

"Well . . . she popped in to see me a little while ago, and she looked as if she was on the war path! You know that expression she gets on her face when she's about to do battle. Implacable is the best way to describe it, I suppose."

Paula was thoughtful at the other end of the phone. She stared out at the garden, a frown marring her smooth brow. "I'm sure she doesn't have any business in London, Emily," she said after a short pause and laughed dismissively. "Besides, you ought to know by now that Grandy always looks implacable. It s become her normal expression. Also, she was probably in a hurry when you saw her. Mummy and Daddy were driving back with her, and she wouldn't have wanted to keep them waiting in the car! I know the clothes are preoccupying her. She told me yesterday that they're going to be hitting a lot of different climates and that they'll be gone for three months. Let's face it, Emily, she has quite a task ahead of her selecting the appropriate things."

"Perhaps you're right," Emily conceded slowly, not entirely convinced. 'She's very excited by the trip, Paula. She's done nothing but talk about it to me all weekend!"

"It'll do her good, since it's the first real holiday she's had in years. And she can't wait to see Philip and visit Dunoon, She always had such wonderful times there with my grandfather. And listen, Dumpling darling, talking of my baby brother, I'm going to have to hang up. When he telephoned from Sydney yesterday, I promised I'd write to him today and tell him all about the christening. I must get the letter out of the way before Jim gets home."

"I understand. Thanks for ringing, Paula, and 111 see you later in the week! Give Philip my love. Bye."

Paula murmured her goodbye, replaced -the receiver, and immediately started her letter to Philip. Her young brother was recuperating from a bout of pneumonia, and she and her parents and her grandmother had all agreed it was unfair and unnecessary to drag him from Australia just for one day. As she wrote, Paula relived the weekend, filling the letter with details about the church ceremony, the reception afterward, along with news of the entire family and their mutual friends, especially the O'Neills and the Kallinskis. • She stopped after three pages in her small neat script and looked up, thinking about Philip. They had always been close and were good friends, and she missed him. She was aware that Philip missed her too, and their parents and Grandy, and that he was sometimes awfully homesick for England. On the other hand, Dunoon, their sheep station at Coonamble in New South Wales, had fired his imagination since his childhood, and she believed it now held his complete affection.

Also, running their vast Australian holdings, which their grandfather, Paul McGill, had left Emma, was a tremendous challenge. She knew Philip more than relished his job. He had settled down at last in this past year and had started to make a full and complete life for himself out there, and she was glad of that. She finished the letter, addressed and sealed the envelope, then stood up, walked to the far end of the room. She bent down and picked up several blossoms which had dropped off a bright pink azalea, laid them in an ashtray on a ceramic drum table, and then glanced around, wondering whether to serve drinks in here or in the drawing room.

Although Paula thought of this favorite room as her very own private spot in the house, it had fallen into general use lately. She often found Jim reading here, and most of their guests automatically gravitated to it. In actuality the room was a conservatory, typical of those built onto Victorian mansions in the second half of the nineteenth century, after Joseph Paxton had pioneered the use of iron girders as support for glass houses. Paula considered the large conservatory, like the garden, one of the few real assets at Long Meadow. It was Gothic in design, and she had filled it with tropical green plants, small trees, and exotic orchids, plus a lovely array of small and colorful flowering shrubs. The fir-green carpeting, and the green and white ivy print she had chosen for the wicker furniture and skirted tables produced a cool restful ambiance, and the conservatory appeared to flow out into the grounds beyond the .glass walls. Since Paula's redecoration, it provided an extra sitting room as well as a study for her in the refreshing environment of a garden that grew the year round.

As she turned around, her eyes fell on one of her prized hydrangeas; she was concerned to see that it had developed discolored edges! She continued to examine it thoughtfully until the shrilling telephone forced her to return to her desk She answered it with a bright "Hello?"

"And how's the little mother?" Miranda O'Neill asked in her lovely, lilting voice.

"I'm fine, Merry. How're you, lovey?"

"Exhausted if you want to. know the truth. I've had my nose to the grindstone all day, and I was in the office most of yesterday, developing my idea for the Harte boutiques in our hotels. I believe I've formulated some really workable plans. I want to show them to my father tomorrow, and then I thought we might get together later in the week if you have time."

"Of course I do, and I must say you've been awfully fast and extremely diligent."

'Thanks! Aunt Emma was most enthusiastic when I spoke to her on Saturday, and I didn't want to lose any time. As your grandmother always says, time is money. Besides, if we're going to do it, the areas for the boutiques must be included in the new architectural blueprints, and those will be on the drawing board soon."

"I realize there's a time element involved here because of your building and remodeling program, Merry. So let's meet on Wednesday. About two o'clock?"

'That's perfect for me, and let's do it in my office." Miranda chuckled and said, "Isn't it fabulous news about Aunt Emma going off on a world tour with Grandpops? We're all thrilled at home."

"So are we . . . it'll do them both good."

Merry said, "You should have seen him this morning. I couldn't believe it when he showed up at the office bright and early. There he was behind his desk, where he hasn't been for months, making phone calls, hustling and bustling, and driving that poor old secretary of his crazy. He kept saying to her, 'First class, first class, and all the way, Gertie! This has to be a deluxe trip.' Aunt Emma's agreeing to go with him has given him a new lease on life—not that he really needed one, actually, since he's always so up and bubbly. But do you know, he got quite miffed with me when I mentioned my idea about the boutiques. He actually bellowed at me to keep Emma out of it, said that he didn't want my piddling bit of business interfering with his Plan with a capital P. It took me ages to calm him down."

"How did you manage to do that?" Paula asked, laughing under her breath, trying to envision Blackie in a rage, which was rather difficult to do.

"When I finally got a word in edgewise, I said Aunt Emma wasn't involved, that you were and that we could cope very well without either, of them. Then he beamed and said I was his clever darling girl but just to be sure to -keep out of his way for the next few days because he was very preoccupied and extremely busy! Anybody would think they were" going off on a honeymoon."

"Well, he did give her the ring, you know, Merry." .

"Isn't it sweet. They're a couple of lovely old dears, aren't they?"

Paula burst out laughing. "I'd hardly characterize my grandmother and your grandfather as a couple of old dears. Blackie and Emma are more like firecrackers, in my opinion. And weren't you the one who told me only the other day that they were incorrigible when they got together?" Paula reminded Miranda.

Merry had the good grace to laugh with Paula, and she admitted, "That's true, I did, and you're right. And by the way, talking of Aunt Emma, I don't know what to buy her for her eightieth birthday. I've been racking my brains for days! Any suggestions?"

'You've got to be joking! We all have the same problem. Mummy and Daddy were discussing it with me over lunch today. And Emily's been nagging me to think of something she can get. Frankly, I'm at a loss, like you and everyone else!"

"Well, let's compare notes again on Wednesday," Merry said. "I'd better go, Paula. My father's waiting for me. We have to go over some of my rough drafts for the press release— about the acquisition of the hotel in New York. I hope to God he likes one of the versions; otherwise I'm going to be at my₍ desk until midnight. Not that that would be anything unusual,' Miranda grumbled. "I seem to have become a workhorse lately. No wonder I don't have any private life these days."

"I just told Emily to take it easy at Genretl And you'd better do the same, Merry," Paula cautioned.

"Listen who's talking!" Miranda said and laughed hollowly.

Since the conservatory opened directly off the marble-floored entrance hall, Paula heard Jim's footsteps the moment he entered the house. She was standing near the fading hydrangea plant, holding the discolored leaf in her hand, and she turned, expectancy and warmth filling her face.

"Hello, darling," she said, as he came down the two steps, and moved swiftly toward him, her eagerness to see him most apparent.

"Hello," he replied.

They met in the center of the room. He gave her a light kiss, then lowered himself into a chair without saying another word.

Paula stood staring down at him, puzzlement in her eyes. He had sounded so apathetic, and the kiss was so perfunctory she knew he was not himself. She said instantly, "Is there something the matter, Jim?"

He shook his head. "Just tired," he said, smiling that bland, dismissive smile she had come to know so well. 'There was an accident on the Harrogate road, quite a pileup of cars because of it, and it slowed the. traffic. We crawled along for miles. Frustrating . . . exhausting, actually."

"How awful. I'm sorry. That's all you needed. Let me fix you a drink," she suggested, not entirely satisfied with this explanation but making up her mind not to press too hard for the moment.

"That's a good idea," he exclaimed in a stronger tone. "Thanks, a gin and tonic should hit the spot."

"I'll just go for some ice," she said and made to leave the conservatory.

"Ring for Meg. She can bring it." He frowned. "The bell's not broken again, is it?"

"No, but it'll be quicker if I go," Paula said, pausing with one foot on the step, glancing over her shoulder.

"I wonder sometimes why we have a maid," he said with a hint of irritation, looking up, leveling his pale grayish blue eyes on her.

She stared back at him, detecting criticism in his tone and manner, but she remarked with evenness, "She's awfully busy right now, and anyway Grandy brought us up not to be overly dependent on servants, as I've told you so many times." Not waiting for a response, she hurried out, but she heard his pained sigh as she went into the hall. Maybe it is only weariness, a hard day at the paper, the difficult drive' home, plus the hectic weekend, Paula thought, endeavoring to persuade herself that these were the real reasons for his peculiar mood. He wasn't often moody, at least not exactly like this! As she pushed open the kitchen door, she noticed she was still holding the leaf. It was mangled in her hand.

Relax, she instructed herself, his moodiness means nothing. He'll be more like himself after a drink.

Meg said, "Do you think I've made enough canape's, Mrs. Fairley?" She indicated the silver tray, pausing in herjwork.

"Yes, that's plenty, Meg, and they look delicious. Thank you. Could you fill the ice bucket, please?" Whilst the maid busied herself at the refrigerator, Paula threw the leaf in the rubbish bin and washed her hands at the kitchen sink.

]im had risen in her absence, and he was standing looking out into the garden when Paula went back to the conservatory with the ice. His face was in profile; nonetheless she could not fail to miss the morose curve of his mouth, and when he swung around, his eyes were vague.

Questions flew to her tongue, but she bit them back and hurried to the skirted table, which held bottles and a tray of glasses. Pouring his gin and tonic, she said without turning around, "I thought we'd have drinks in here later, or do you prefer the drawing room?"

"Wherever you wish," he replied in a disinterested voice.

Striving for a normal manner, she continued steadily, "Did you book at the Granby after all, Jim?"

"Yes. We have a table reserved for eight-thirty. Anthony called earlier today and said they wouldn't be able to get here until seven fifteen. That gives us an hour to relax."

"Yes." Anxiety was rising in her. He was strange, there were no two ways about it, and she wondered if their quarrel of the previous evening still lingered in the back of his mind, rankled perhaps! But why would it? He had won, and anyway he had teen chatty and pleasant at breakfast. But she resolved to get to the root of whatever was bothering him. She also decided'to have a vodka and tonic, even though she hardly ever drank hard liquor.

Jim seemed to visibly cheer up as he sipped his drink. He lit a cigarette and asked casually, "Heard from anybody today?"

"Emily, Merry O'Neill. And Grandy, of course. She rang me just after you left this morning to let me know she was going to London for a few days." Paula now looked directly at him, took a deep breath. "Why are we making small talk, Jim, when you're troubled? I know something's wrong. Please tell me what it is, darling."

He was silent.

She leaned forward intently, her unwavering eyes holding his. "Look, I want to know what's bothering you," she insisted.

Jim sighed heavily. "I suppose there's no point putting it off... I had a bit of a set-to with Winston today, and—"

Paula laughed with relief. "Is that all! Well, you've had clashes with him before, and they always blow over. So will this—"

"I've resigned," Jim announced flatly.

She looked at him uncomprehendingly, totally at a loss for words. Slowly she put down her drink. Her dark brows drew together in a frown. "Resigned?"

"As managing director of the company, that is," he added quickly. "Effective immediately."

Thunderstruck, she continued to gape at him. She found her voice and it rose slightly as'she asked, "But why? And why didn't you mention it to me, tell me what was on your mind? I simply don't understand ..." She did not finish her sentence, sat tensely in the chair.

"There was nothing to discuss. You see, I didn't know I was going to resign—until I did."

"Jim, this is perfectly ridiculous," she said, attempting a laugh. "Just because you had a little row with Winston doesn't mean you have to do something as drastic as this . . .. after all, Grandy has the final word, you know that. She appointed you; she'll reinstate you at once. She'll put Winston straight, deal with him. Look, I'll speak to her tomorrow, ring her first thing in the morning." She gave him an encouraging smile, but it faltered as he held up his hand with an abrupt movement that was uncharacteristic.

"I'm afraid you're misunderstanding me. Winston didn't force me to resign or anything like that, if that's what you're thinking. I did so of my own accord. I wanted to, and rather badly, although I must admit in all truthfulness that I didn't realize this until the opportunity presented itself. So I certainly don't want to be reinstated.'

"But why not, for heaven's sake?" she cried, her perplexity and concern mounting, rising to the surface to cloud her face.

"Because I don't like the job. Never have. When Winston came to see me this morning, he asked me point-blank if I wished to continue as managing director; and as he was speaking, I knew—really knew, Paula—that I didn't. I've never been particularly good at administrative work or interested in it, and I told Winston so, and he said he'd sensed this for some time. He pointed out that perhaps it would be better if I stuck to journalism, ran the papers but not the company. I thoroughly agree with him, so I stepped down. That s all there is to it, actually," he shrugged, smiled faintly,

"All there is to it," she echoed incredulously. She was aghast at what he had done and at his attitude. "I don't believe I'm hearing you say these things. You're acting as if it didn't matter, as if this wasn't serious, when it's terribly serious. And you're being so cavalier, so dismissive, I'm absolutely staggered."

"Don't get so het up. Frankly, I'm filled with relief."

"Relief should be the last thing on your mind," she said in a small dismayed voice. "What about duty? Responsibility? Grandy showed a great deal of faith in you, put her trust in you when she appointed you managing director last year. I think you've let her down and rather badly."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Paula, because I must disagree with you. I haven't let Grandy down," he protested. "I'm still going to be managing editor in charge of two of the most important newspapers in the Consolidated group. I'll be doing what I do best, being a newspaperman and a damned good one at that." He sat back, crossed his legs, and returned her penetrating stare with an unblinking gaze. His expression was adamant!

"And who's going to run the company, now that you've stepped down?"

"Winston, of course."  "You know very well he doesn't want that job."

"Neither do I.

Paula's lips drew together in aggravation. Another thought struck her, and she exclaimed fiercely, ."I hope this sudden and rather extraordinary decision of yours doesn't mean that Grandy will have to cancel her trip with Blackie. She really needs that holiday. What did she say? I presume you've told her."

"Naturally I've told her. Winston and I walked over to the store at lunch' time for a meeting with her. Your grandmother accepted my resignation, Winston's agreed to take the job, and he didn't seem very perturbed about the idea either. Grandy isn't going to cancel her holiday—rest assured of that." He leaned forward and clasped her hand in his. "Come on, relax. You're the one who's more upset than anyone. Grandy and Winston respect my decision. They didn't quibble. In fact there was very little discussion ... it was rather cut and dried, actually."

"You've simply misunderstood their reactions," she murmured, filled with misery.

Jim laughed. "Now you're being ridiculous, Paula. I know them both very well, and I can assure you that everything is all right."

Paula could think of no easy reply to this statement. She was astonished at his lack of insight, and his assumption that things were on an even keel showed extremely flawed judgment on his part. Jim obviously had no conception of what made her grandmother and Winston tick. She didn't have to think twice to know that they had accepted the situation because they had had no alternative. They would pull together to keep the company running smoothly. That's our way, she thought. We do our duty and accept responsibility, no matter how difficult that is. Things were far from all right, as he so glibly put it.

Jim was watching her, trying to ascertain what she was thinking, but her violet eyes were veiled, unreadable. He said anxiously, "Please try to see my point of view, understand my feelings about the situation. Your grandmother and Winston do. And don't let's argue about my resignation. Since it's a fait accompli, this is all rather silly, wouldn't you say?"

Paula said nothing. She leaned back in her chair, extracted her hand quietly, and reached for her drink. She took a quick sip. There was a protracted silence before she said, "Jim, I do wish you'd reconsider . . . there are other things involved here. Grandy was going to tell you this herself later in the week, but I know she won't mind if I tell you now. She's going to change her will. At the moment her shares in the newspaper company are part of the assets of Harte Enterprises, which as you know my cousins are to inherit. But she's decided to leave the newspaper shares to the twins—our children—so I know it's important to her that you're totally involved with the newspaper company and on every level. I don't care what she said to you this morning, I'm absolutely convinced she's terribly disappointed deep down because you've chosen to step away from the managerial side—"

Jim's brief laugh stopped her short. She looked at him, searched his face, wondering'if she had imagined the edge to that laugh.

He said patiently in a soft, .smooth voice, "Paula, whether I'm managing director, managing editor, or both, or neither, for
that matter, your grandmother will still change her will. She'll leave those shares to our children no matter what and for
several good reasons."

"What reasons?"

"They're Fairleys for one thing, and then there's her guilt."

Paula blinked, for a second not understanding what he was getting at; then quite suddenly she had a flash of insight, and she stared at him intently. She hoped she had misunderstood the implication behind his words. She took a deep breath to steady herself and asked very slowly, "Her guilt about what exactly?"

"Wresting the Yorkshire Morning Gazette away from my grandfather, grabbing control of the company," he said offhandedly, lighting a cigarette.

"You make it sound as if she stole it!" Paula tersely exclaimed. "You know very well that your grandfather ran that newspaper into the ground, and that certainly had nothing to do with Grandy. You've said often enough that he was a brilliant barrister but a lousy businessman. Surely I don't have to remind you that the other shareholders begged Grandy to take over. She bailed them out—and your grandfather, for that matter. He made a lot of money on his shares."

"Yes, you're correct—especially about him mismanaging the paper—but 1 suppose he would have muddled through, limped along somehow, and retained control, if your grandmother hadn't swooped dovvn'.and scooped it up." He gulped some of his drink, drew on his cigarette.

"The paper would have gone bankrupt! Then where would your grandfather have been?" She glared at him. "In a mess— that's where!"

"Look here, Paula, don't sound so shocked. I'm only reminding you of the facts. We both know that Grandy ruined the Fairleys." He gave her an easy lopsided smile. "We're both adults, so we'd be rather silly if we tried to s%veep all that under the rug, just because you and I are married. What happened did actually happen, you know. You and I are not going to change it, and it's certainly nonsensical for us to quarrel about it now, so long after the event."

Paula recoiled, gaping at him. Dismay had lodged like a rock in the pit of her stomach, and she was shaking inside. As his words echoed in her head, her patience evaporated, the tension of the last few weeks rose up in her, and something snapped
all of a sudden. "She no more ruined the Fairleys than I did! It just so happens that Adam Fairley and that eldest son of his, Gerald, did it all by themselves. Whether you want to believe it or not, your great-grandfather and great-uncle were negligent, stupid, self-indulgent, and very poor businessmen. And besides, even if she had ruined them, I for one wouldn't blame her. I'd applaud her for settling the score. The Fairleys treated my grandmother abominably. And as for your sainted grandfather, what he did to her was . . . was unspeakable!" She gasped. "Unconscionable, do vou hear! Fine upstanding young man Edwin was, wasn't he? Getting her pregnant at sixteen and then leaving her to fend for herself. He didn't even lift a finger to help her. As for—"

"I know all that—" Jim began, wondering how to placate her and stop this flow of angry words.

She cut him off peremptorily. "What you don't know perhaps is that your great-uncle Gerald tried to rape her, and believe you me, no woman ever forgets the man who has attempted rape on her! So don't start presenting a case for the Fairleys to me. And how dare you point a finger at my grandmother, after all she's done for you! Could it be that you're trying to gloss over your abdication of your duty to her—" Paula stopped herself from saying any more.- Her emotions were running high, and she was so furious she was shaking like a leaf.

A sudden chill settled in the room.

They stared at each other. Both of them were appalled. Paula's face was so white her deep blue eyes seemed more startling than ever, and Jim's face was taut with shock.

His distress prevented him from speaking for a few seconds. He was stunned by her outburst and dismayed that she had chosen to totally misconstrue his words—uttered idly and rather carelessly, he now had to admit.

He finally exclaimed with great fervency, "Paula, please believe me, I wasn't making a case for the Fairleys or pointing a finger at Emma. How can you possibly think I would do anything like that? I've always respected and honored her, since the first day I worked for her. And I've grown to love her since we've been married. She's a wonderful woman, and I'm the first to appreciate everything she's done for me."

"That's nice to know."

Jim caught his breath, cringed at her sarcastic tone. "Please, Paula, don't look at me like that. You've misunderstood me completely."

She did not reply, averted her face, and stared at the mass of plants lining the glass walls of the conservatory.

Jim jumped up. He grabbed her hands and pulled her'out of the chair, took- her in his arms. "Darling, please listen to me. I love you. The past doesn't matter; Grandy's the first person to say so. I was wrong to even bring it up. What they all did to each other half a century ago has nothing to do with us. Somehow we've gone off the rails because of this'. . . this discussion about my resignation. Everything lias been blown out of proportion. You're overly upset about nothing. Please, please calm yourself." As he spoke, he led her to a loveseat and pressed her down, seated himself next to her, and took her hand, looked deeply into her face.

He said, "Look, I agree with you, Paula—what my grandfather did was unspeakable. And he knew that himself. He lived with a guilty conscience for the rest of his life. In fact his actions as a young man mined his life in many ways. He confided that in me before he died. He never stopped regretting losing Emma and their child, nor did he stop loving her, and at the end all he wanted was your grandmother's forgiveness. When he was dying, he implored me to go to Emma and beg her forgiveness for everything the Fairleys had done to her, himself most of all. Don t you remember? I told you this, I spoke to Grandy about it the night she announced our engagement."

"Yes," Paula said.

"I repeated everything to Grandy—his last words just before he slipped away. He said, 'Jim, it will be an unquiet grave I lie in if Emma does not forgive me. Implore her to do so, Jim, so that my tortured soul can rest in peace.' And when I told Emma, she wept a little, and she said, 'I think perhaps your grandfather suffered more than I did, after all.' And Paula, Emma forgave him. She forgave all of the Fairleys. Why can't you?"

She lifted her head sharply, startled by the question. "Oh, Jim, I—" There was a short pause before she finished, "There's nothing for me to forgive. I think you've misunderstood me!"

"Perhaps. But you were so angry, shouting at me, going on about the Fairleys ..."

"Yes, I did lose my temper, but you riled me when you said Grandy had guilt feelings. I know her, and far better than you,
Jim, and I'm convinced she doesn't feel guilty about anything."

"Then I was wrong," he said with a weak smile. "I apologize." He was relieved she sounded more normal.

"You're wrong about something else too."

"What's that?"

"The past. You just said that the past doesn't matter, but I can't agree with you. The past is always coming back to haunt us, and we can never escape it. It makes prisoners of us all. Grandy might give lip service to the idea that the past is no longer important, but she doesn't really believe this. She's often said to me that the past is immutable, and it most certainly is in my opinion."

"The sins of the fathers and all that—is that what you mean?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

Jim exhaled, shook his head.

Paula looked at him carefully. "I have a question. You might not like it, but I feel compelled to ask it." She waited, watching him closely.

He stared back at her. "Paula, I'm your husband, and I love you, and there should never be anything but complete honesty and directness between us. Obviously you can ask me anything. What's the question?"

She took a breath, plunged. "Do you resent Grandy? I mean because she's the owner of the Gazette and not you? If your grandfather had managed to retain control, you would have inherited the paper." '

Jim's jaw dropped in astonishment, and he gaped at her; then he laughed. "If I had any resentment—or bitterness or jealousy—I'd hardly be resigning as managing director. I'd be scheming to get the paper for myself—at least, to get as much power as I possibly could. And I'd have been dropping hints to you long ago to influence Grandy to leave the newspaper shares to our children ... so that I could get absolute control through their holdings. With that kind of clout at my fingertips, I would be kingpin in the company after Emma was dead. Actually, it would be mine in a manner of speaking, since I would be handling their business affairs until they came of age." He shook his head, still laughing. "Now wouldn't I have done that?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Paula admitted in a drained voice, feeling suddenly debilitated.

Jim-said, "Paula, surely you realize by now that I'm not money hungry, nor particularly ambitious for power. I like
running the papers, being managing editor—I admit that— but I don't want to be involved in business and administration."

"Not even when you know that the newspaper company will be your children's one day?"

"I trust Winston. He'll do a good job. After all, he does have rather a big stake in the Consolidated group when you consider that he and the Hartes own half the company. He controls forty-eight percent of the shares, don't forget."

Paula knew there was no point arguing with Jim any further about his resignation, at least not now. She stood up. "I think I've got to go outside ... I need some fresh air."

Jim also rose, looking at her with concern. "Are you all right? You're awfully pale."

"Yes, really. Why don't you spend a few minutes with the babies before you change? I'll be up in a short while—I just need to take a stroll around the garden."

He caught her arm as she moved toward the door and swung her to face him. "Friends again, darling?" he asked softly.

"Yes, of course," she reassured him, conscious of the anxiety reflected in his eyes and recognising the plea in his voice.

Paula walked slowly through the garden, circumvented the plantation of trees, and took the narrow path leading to the second lawn that sloped down toward the grove of laburnum trees and the pond.

She was considerably shaken by their quarrel, and her senses were swimming. She sat down on the steps of the white-painted summerhouse, relieved to be alone, to regain her equilibrium. She deplored the fact that she had lost control, flown into a temper, and her only excuse was the extreme provocation. Jim's remark that her grandmother was guilt-ridden about the Fairleys had been so inflammatory it had made her blood boil. The suggestion was ridiculous. Just as his resignation was ludicrous.

Although she was desperately troubled by that impulsive and irresponsible move on his part, her dismay about it had been jostled to one side by the impact of their collision. This last row was a lot more serious than one of their quarrels about Edvvina. It had struck at an important fundamental in any marriage—trust. And it raised questions in her mind about Jim, his innermost fefilings for her grandmother, and his loyalty to Emma. Her head was teeming with questions. Did he bear a grudge against Emma Harte because she now owned everything the Fairleys had once owned? Perhaps subconsciously, without really understanding that he did? It struck her and very sharply that this was not beyond the realms of possibility. Alter all, he had been the one to launch into the past, not she; and if the past didn't matter, as he had claimed, then why had he brought it up in the first place?

Were resentment and bitterness at the root of his statement after all? She trembled at this thought. Those were the most dangerous emotions in the world, for like cancer they gnawed away at a person's insides; they were destructive and colored everything a person did. Yet when she had asked Jim bluntly if he resented Grandy, he had obviously been flabbergasted by the idea, and his answer had been immediate, direct, and totally without guile. He had been genuine—she had seen that instantly. She had always found Jim relatively easy to read. He was not a devious man but was quite the reverse really, in that he was not constitutionally cut out to dissemble.

Paula leaned against the railings and closed her eyes, her mind working at its rapid and most intelligent best, assessing and analyzing. She had always believed she knew Jim inside out, but did she really? Perhaps it was arrogant of her to -think she had such great insight into him. After all, how well did anyone know another person when one got right down to it? There had been times when she had found those who were closest to her, with whom she had grown up, difficult and even impossible to comprehend on occasions. If members of her immediate family and her oldest friends were frequently baffling, how could she possibly understand a man she had known for a brief two years, a man who might easily be termed a stranger even though he was her husband? She had come to realize that people could not always be taken on face value . . . most people were highly complex. Sometimes they themselves did not recognize what motivated them to do the things they did. How well did James Arthur Fairley actually know himself? And, come to think of it, how well did he know her?

These nagging questions hung in the air, and she finally let go of them, sighing, understanding that she had no ready answers for herself. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands, so relaxed, curled in her lap. The tension had gone, and now that her anger had all but dissipated entirely, she was able to think objectively and with a cool head. She acknowledged that she had leaped down Jim's throat. Of course he had been awfully provocative, but that was no doubt unintentional on his part. They were both at fault, and if he had a few imperfections, then most assuredly so did she. They were both human. As he had defended himself against her strong verbal onslaught, she had heard the ring of truth and sincerity, in his voice, had noted the genuine love written all over his face. It suddenly seemed inconceivable to her that Jim could harbor ill feelings for her grandmother. Furthermore she owed it to her husband to believe that he did not. Yes, she must trust him, must give him the benefit of the doubt. If she was not capable of doing that, then their relationship would be threatened. Besides, he had made a very salient point, one she could not now ignore. He had said he would hardly be resigning as managing director if he was embittered and felt that the Gazette was his by rights, that instead he would be making sure he grabbed all .the power for himself. She could not deny that his words made sense. Anybody who was goaded on by resentment to get even, to win, would hardly be quitting the arena. He would be planning the coup-de-grace.

Thoughts of his resignation intruded more sharply, but she clamped down on them with resoluteness. Wisely she decided she had better shelve that sensitive issue for the time being. It was hardly the time to start tackling him about that again when their guests were due to arrive shortly. And especially since Edvvina was one of those guests. She most certainly wasn't going to let her see a chink in the armor.

Jim stood at the window where, from this angle, he could see Paula sitting on the steps of the summerhouse. His eyes remained riveted on her, and he wished she would come back inside. It was imperative that he smooth things over between them.

He had not meant any harm when he had mentioned that old worn-out "story about Emma Harte ruining the Fairleys. But he had been tactless, no use denying it, and a bloody fool for not realizing that Paula would react fiercely. Jim exhaled wearily.
She had overreacted in his opinion; after all facts were facts and quite inescapable. But then his wife was irrational about her grandmother, worshiping her the way she did. She wielded a club on anyone who dared to even hint that Emma was less than perfect. Not that he ever said a wrong word about her ... he had no reason to criticize or condemn Emma Harte. Just the opposite, actually.

Paula's revelation about Gerald Fairley attempting to rape the young Emma edged to the front of his mind. It was undoubtedly true, and the very idea of it was so repellent to him that he shivered involuntarily. On the rare occasions Gerald's name had cropped up in conversation, he had divined a look of immense distaste and contempt on his grandfather's face, and now he understood why. Jim shook his head wonderingly, thinking how entangled the lives of the Fairleys and the Hartes had been at the turn of the century; still the actions of his antecedents were hardly his fault or his responsibility. He had not known any of them, except for his grandfather, so they were shadowy figures at best; anyway, the present was the only thing that mattered, that counted for anything.

This thought brought his eyes back to the window. He moved the curtain slightly. Paula was a motionless figure on the steps of the old summerhouse, lost in her contemplations. Once she had returned to the bedroom to change her clothes, he would sit her down, talk to her, do his damnedest to make up to her, apologize again if necessary. He was beginning to loathe these quarrels, which had become so frequent of late.

He ran his hand through his fair hair absently, a meditative look settling on his finely drawn, rather sensitive face. Paula could be right—maybe Emma was not in the least troubled by her past deeds. Now that he considered it objectively, in a rational manner, it suddenly struck him that she was far too pragmatic a woman to worry about matters that could not be altered. And yet he could not dismiss the sense of guilt he had detected in her from time to time. Perhaps her guilt was centered solely on him, had nothing to do with those long-dead Fairleys. There was no question in his mind that Emma worried about him. This was the reason he had not been in the least surprised when Paula had mentioned the will, since he had always expected Emma to change it, to favor his children. He did not crave the shares for himself; nor could Emma leave him her interest in the papers without causing a stink in the family. And so Emma, being fairminded and scrupulous, was doing her level best to make amends, to make things right and proper in the only way she knew how. She was giving Lome and Tessa their birthright . . . the inheritance he himself would have willed to his children if his - family had retained control of the newspaper.

Jim was completely convinced that genuine emotion motivated Emma. She had once loved his grandfather, and in consequence she cared deeply about him. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind about that. He might even have been her grandson if circumstances had been slightly different.

Yes, Grandy had shown her true feelings for him in an infinite variety of ways—he had hard evidence. He ran all of the instances through his head . . . she had given him the job as managing editor when there had been other candidates just as well qualified; she had ended her vendetta against the Fairleys because of him; she had blessed his marriage to her favorite grandchild. In fact Emma Harte was always bending over backward to please him, and she was on his side—her actions more than proved this. Grandy had persuaded Paula to live-here at Long Meadow because he so wished it. She had acknowledged that the twins must be christened at Fairley church, and moreover, she had not objected when he had invited Edwina. It was only Paula who ever made a fuss about that unfortunate woman who had never done anybody any harm.

Jim shifted his stance impatiently, wondering how long Paula intended to sit out there. He glanced at his watch with irritation. If she did not come in within the next few minutes, he would go out and talk to her in the garden. He did want to make sure she understood one thing. . . Emma was not disappointed in him. That morning, when he had told her he wanted to resign, Grandy had agreed and said that she appreciated his honesty. "If that's what you want, then that's what you must do," Emma had said with a little smile. "I'd be the last person to stop you." Emma was compassionate and full of humanity, and she loved him in her own way. And he was loyal to her, devoted. There was a special bond between them. It was never mentioned, but it existed nevertheless.

Much to his relief Jim now saw Paula walking up the path. Thank God she was coming back to the house. His tension lessened, even though it was impossible from this distance to gauge her state of mind or to ascertain what her attitude would be. But then he always had trouble doing that. It seemed to him that she constantly had him on the edge, kept him guessing. She was temperamental, even difficult at times, but no woman had captivated him, ensnared him as she had. And she had done so without even trying. There was enormous chemistry between them, and their sexual attraction for each other was so strong it was overpowering. Paula was so intense, so serious, so complex she often left him floundering and baffled. Yet he found her depth and sincerity gratifying; equally he was thrilled by her passion, her desire for him in bed. The women he had been involved with before her had often complained about his sex drive. They seemed to think it was abnormal, were unable to cope, balked at his staying power. But not Paula . . . she never complained, always welcomed him with open arms, as ready
as he to abandon herself to their lovemaking, and he could never get enough of her. He knew she felt the same.

Paula was the best thing in the world that had ever happened to him, and he was struck by this realization more and more
every day. How lucky he had been to meet her on that plane journey from Paris.

He thought back to it now, remembering clearly every little detail of their first meeting. Her name had sounded familiar, and her lovely face had touched a chord in his memory, but he had not been able to place her. But later that night, restless, unable to sleep, haunted by her, everything had suddenly clicked into place. It had dawned on him that she was the daughter of David Amory, who ran the Harte stores, and that she was therefore the granddaughter of Emma Harte, his employer. He had been at once intimidated and dismayed, had not closed his eyes all night, worrying about the situation and the ramifications it involved.

The following morning, confused, disturbed, and ambivalent, he had wavered and wondered whether to cancel their dinner date planned for that evening. In the end he had been unable to resist seeing her again, had gone to the Mirabelle in a troubled state. He had been keyed up, anxious, and his heart had been in his mouth. After one of the waiters had made a remark about her grandmother, he had seen his chance. He had the perfect opening gambit, had asked her who her prestigious grandparent was, and Paula had told him without hesitation. She had made light of this, had made it easy for him, and surprisingly her relationship to Emma Harte had suddenly not mattered. His extraordinary feelings for Paula swept everything to one side, and he had fallen in love with her over dinner at the Mirabelle, had made up his mind to marry her—even if Emma sacked him and disinherited her heiress.

Jim recalled the night, a month after their first date, when he had finally succeeded in getting Paula into bed. Unexpectedly, erotic images of them together began to dance around in his head, made the heat rush through him. He knew what he was going to do the minute she walked in, knew how to put everything right between them. Words and long explanations were meaningless, inconsequential, now that he thought about it. Actions counted. Yes, his was the best way, the only way, to demolish the residue of their quarrel completely.

As Paula entered the bedroom, Jim saw that she was calmer, that her color was perfectly normal. He went to her, took her hands in his. "I can't bear these awful rows," he said.

"Neither can I."

Without saying anything else, he took her face between his hands and kissed her, his mouth working sensually on hers. His passion soared. He was at full arousal. His arms went around her, and he brought her closer so that she was positioned into the curve of his body. His hands slid down her back onto her buttocks, and he pressed her into him with impatience. She must understand the extent of his excitement, understand that he intended to possess her immediately.

Paula accepted his kisses and then quickly but gently pushed him away. "Jim, please. They'll be here in a few minutes. We
don't have time—"

He silenced her with another kiss; then, breaking away from her, he led her to the bed. He pushed her down onto it purposefully, lay next to her, wrapped his long legs around her. In a voice thickened by desire, he said against her neck,
"I must have you. Now. Quickly, before they arrive! We do have time. And you know we always make up, once we've made love. Come on, take your clothes off for me, darling."

Paula started to protest, not wanting this, wary of him, sensing she was being manipulated again. But he was already fumbling with the buttons on her shirt, and so she swallowed her words! It was far easier if she was compliant, as she had so quickly come to realize in the last year. Jim believed that sex solved every one of their problems. But of course it did not.

Chapter Eighteen

At six-thirty the following morning Paula left Long Meadow for the office, looking coolly elegant in a smartly tailored black linen suit and a crisp white silk shirt.

After a restless night of tossing and turning and worrying, she had risen earlier than usual. Only Nora had been astir at that hour, preparing the babies' bottles, and after she had showered and dressed, Paula had spent fifteen tranquil minutes with her and the twins in the nursery before going downstairs to the kitchen. As she had drunk a quick cup of tea, she had scribbled a note to Jim, explaining that she was facing a hectic day at the store and wanted to get a head start.

This was only partially true. Paula had the most urgent need to unscramble her jumbled thoughts and take stock of the situation. She could only do that when she was alone— and the only time she was not surrounded by people was either when she was gardening or driving.

As she pointed the car down the gravel driveway, she realized she was relieved to be escaping from the house. It seemed more suffocating than ever to her today. Although she enjoyed the grounds and the conservatory, Long Meadow would never really be her favorite place, despite the more attractive ambiance she and her mother had created. As Grandy had said, "You've both done your best, but you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

And whatever Jim believed, the house teas oppressive. Her grandmother felt the same way as she did and rarely came, preferring instead to have them over to Pennistone Royal. This aside, it was extremely difficult to run efficiently. It was poorlv designed, had endless staircases, winding corridors, and dark landings. Meg and the daily char, Mrs. Coe, were constantly complaining, and even Nora, who was younger than they, had taken to grumbling about her aching legs lately. Jim made light of their complaints. He loved Long Meadow, and she knew he would not consider moving, so there was no point in dreaming about another house, one which was more practical and suitable for their needs.

He was selfish.

So jolted was Paula by this unexpected thought that she stiffened and gripped the steering wheel tighter. She stared ahead at the road, her eyes momentarily glazed by her troubles. What an unkind and disloyal thing to think, she eluded herself. But try though she' did to convince herself she was wrong about Jim, she did not succeed. It was the truth. For months she had tried to ignore this unfortunate and dismaying characteristic in him, had made perpetual excuses for him. Suddenly this was no longer possible. She had to stop deluding herself about Jim, look at the facts unflinchingly, accept that he only ever did what he wanted to do. He was deceptive in that he gave the impression of trying to please, especially with colleagues and friends and when small irrelevant matters were involved. Then he bent over backward to be obliging. When it came to major issues, he dug his feet in and always strove to get his own way, regardless of anyone else's wishes. That was the dichotomy in his nature, and it had begun to worry her.

Paula sighed to herself. They were both stubborn, but at least she was not inflexible. With a start, Paula recognized that Jim was absolutely rigid. This trait had been staring her glaringly in the face for months, yet she had been reluctant, perhaps even afraid, to acknowledge it.

She began to scrutinize the pattern of their life together for the past year, and now discovered that she could remember innumerable examples of that ingrained rigidity. There had been his refusal pointblank to accept a new plane from Grandy, not to mention the fuss about their wedding plans. He had been adamant when her grandmother had asked him to get rid of his rickety old four-seater plane, and suggested he buy a more up-to-date jet at her expense. Being conscious of his pride, Grandy had handled it diplomatically, had pointed out that she felt she should have a company plane at her immediate disposal, and who better to select the best piece of equipment and make the purchase than he. But he would not budge from his position, and Emma had thrown up her hands in exasperation at his intractability.

Almost immediately afterward he had told her parents and Grandy that he wanted to have their marriage ceremony at Fairley Church. They had all three been staggered by this suggestion, and so had she. Apart from the fact that the village church was far too small to accommodate some three hundred guests, her parents and Emma had wanted the wedding to be held in London, to be followed by a reception at Claridge's Hotel. It had been especially important to her grandmother that she have a lovely, elegant, and glamorous wedding. It was her mother who had scotched Jim's idea. Daisy had told him that the marriage arrangements were hardly his concern, since they were always the prerogative of the bride's parents. Clever, clever Daisy. She had won by simply pointing out the correct etiquette, the proper form. In • this instance he had had no option but to back down.

But he had made a swift recovery, and the next battle had been about Long Meadow. Jim had been the winner that time but in a sense by default. She had only agreed to live there to keep the peace and also because her grandmother had told her to be accommodating, "Jim's ego and his masculinity are on the line," her grandmother had remarked. "I agree the house is a monstrosity, but he has a genuine need to be the provider, to give you a home on his own terms. You'd better accept the situation for now."

For this same reason she and Grandy had gone along with his wish to have the twins christened at Fairley Church, even though Emma had initially balked at this idea, had hardly been overjoyed to trek all the way to Fairley, of all places. She rarely went there these days.

Paula slowed down and stopped at a traffic light, mulling over this first year of marriage. People said it was the most difficult year, and perhaps it was inevitable that there would be a few unpleasant revelations. Whizzing up the short hill, she cruised past the Stray and turned onto the main road to Leeds. I suppose I might as well accept that the honeymoon is now definitely over, she muttered under her breath, then laughed ironically. He had even been contrary about their actual honeymoon, had whisked her off to the Lake District instead of to the sunny south of France. Wanting to please him, in love and feeling euphoric, she had accepted his decision, even though France had been more appealing to her. They had been greeted by inclement weather and thunderstorms when they had reached Windermere, and had spent the week shivering in front of the fire in their hotel suite, or in bed making love.

Her thoughts automatically settled on their sex life. She was in love with Jim and wanted him physically, had normal desires and a healthy attitude about sex. But lately it was growing more and more apparent to her that Jim was abnormally driven. His marathons were becoming tiring, even tedious. There were other things in a marriage as well as sex. He was insatiable, and endless, mindless sex was not particularly fulfilling to her. Sometimes she found herself wishing he had more finesse, a better understanding of a woman's body— her body, her needs. Loath though she was to admit it, she knew deep within herself that Jim was just as selfish in bed as he was out of it, always pleasing himself, never giving a thought to her. It was growing harder and harder for her to cope with his need to make love all the time. Her work was demanding, and she craved sleep, but he was seemingly tireless.

Sudden anger flared in Paula as she considered the way he used sex as an antidote for their rows. Her resentment was increasing, because it was manipulative. It seemed incredible to her that he believed their problems evaporated into thin air once they were locked in a tight embrace. Of course that didn't happen; their difficulties were still there afterward. And naturally they remained unsolved.

Oh God, if only he would talk to me, Paula thought. He should communicate. Instead he retreats behind his charm and his jokes, and whenever I try to explain my feelings, he laughs me off. Yes, Jim had a childish tendency to pretend their differences did not exist. She could never get him to open up, try though she did. It occurred to her that she had reached an impasse. She had come to a turning point in her marriage. And after only one year, she said to herself wonderingly. Had she made a terrible mistake? Was divorce the only solution?

Horror trickled through her at the mere idea of breaking up and was quickly replaced by a rush of panic. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and she began to tremble inside. Slowing the car to a crawl, she pulled onto the first side road she saw and parked. Leaning forward, she rested her head on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Divorce was unthinkable. She was stunned that it had even crossed her mind a moment ago. She loved him . . . truly, truly loved him. And in spite of their problems they were compatible in so many important ways. And there were the twins . . . Lome and Tessa needed a father, needed Jim as much as she needed him.

Instantly it struck her that she had been unfair to her husband, adding up his faults, mentally compiling lists of grudges against him when he was not present to defend himself. He was a nice man, a good man, and he had so many lovely qualities. She owed it to him to be scrupulously honest with herself about his manifold attributes.

Silently she began to tick them off in her head. He understood about her work. He appreciated her desire to be out there in the marketplace. Certainly he. never interfered with her career; he did not grumble about her preoccupation with the stores, the late hours she kept. At least he's an enlightened man in that respect, she acknowledged swiftly, and he allows me to be myself. He's not threatened by me either. Furthermore he was obviously cut out to be a marvelous father; that was already evident. There was no question that he adored her, was devoted to her. Jim would never be a philanderer who played around with other women. He was strictly a one-woman man and totally geared to his family and family life, and she was thankful of that.

Straightening up, Paula smoothed her hair into place. I've got to make a go of this relationship, she told herself. It's vitally important to me, and I know it's essential to Jim. She remembered something her grandmother had once said . . . that it was always the woman who made a marriage work. Paula believed this. Her grandmother was wise and experienced; she had lived it all, seen it all. No one knew better about marriage than Emma Harte.

Paula resolved to be' as understanding of Jim as she possibly could. She would put extra effort and time into their relationship. She would be loving and tolerant. It would be immature of her if she did not. After all, everybody had faults, and you didn't stop loving a man simply because he had a few imperfections. You loved him in spite of them.

Turning the ignition key, Paula started the car and backed out of the side road. Her mind began to revolve around her grandmother and Jim's resignation as she sped down the road heading in the direction of Alvvoodley. Convinced though she was that Jim had totally misjudged Emma's reaction to his decision, she nevertheless hoped that her grandmother was not angry with him. She did not want Grandy to think badly of Jim.

Less than half an hour later, Paula sat behind her desk in her office at the Harte store in Leeds, talking to her grandmother, whom she had reached at the flat in Belgrave Square. " "I'm sorry to wake you up," Paula apologized, although she strongly suspected she had not done so.

Emma's warm and vibrant voice flowed over the wire and confirmed this as she said, "I was having my morning tea and waiting for your call. You want to talk to me about Jim, his resignation, don't you?"

"Yes, Gran. I was a bit floored last night when he told me what he'd done and naturally rather upset. I feel he's let you down and at the worst time, when you're about to go away. I can't help thinking that you must be disappointed in him."

"A little," Emma said. "However, I decided not to persuade Jim to retain the managing directorship . . . not under the circumstances. His heart's not in the job, Paula, and that's not good. It's better he steps down."

"Yes," Paula agreed quietly. "What about Winston? Is he frightfully annoyed?"

"Well, he was at first, and I thought for a moment he was going to explode when I told him he would have to take on the job. But he agreed almost at once. There's no one else, as you well know."

"I feel awful about this situation, Grandy. There's not much I can say except that I'm sorry. Jim shouldn't have done this in my opinion. I think it was irresponsible. He doesn't agree with me, of course." There was a fractional pause, and then Paula added, "I'm not trying to make excuses for him, Gran, but I've come to realize that Jim isn't like us, you know, as far as duty is concerned. We've all done jobs we haven't really liked during the years we've all worked for you. Those jobs never killed us, and we learned a lot from the experience. I know I shouldn't make comparisons, but last night when Jim was talking I kept thinking of little Emily— her example. She's been a brick, the way she's gone into Genret and with the best will in the world."

"That's true," Emma agreed, then added swiftly in a kinder tone, "You mustn't be too hard on Jim, Paula dear. People do have their limitations, and remember, he wasn't brought up in the same way as you and your cousins. Anyway, let's be grateful for his talent as a managing editor. He's brilliant, the best, in the business, and that's why I gave him the job years ago. Now, if he'd resigned from that position, we would have a major tragedy on our hands."

"I realize that. He does love the newspaper business, and that's why he's so successful as a journalist." Paula was beginning to feel easier in her mind, and she went on, "I have to defend Jim in one respect. . . he's been honest with you, and we must give him credit for that. He's as straight as a die, Grandy."

"You don't have to tell me, Paula. Jim's not duplicitous, far from it, and I told him yesterday morning that I appreciated his truthfulness. Half-hearted, unenthusiastic executives spell disaster to me."

"Then you're not too angry with him?" Paula asked, clutching the phone tensely, holding her breath.

'That was only a passing reeling yesterday. It quickly dissipated," Emma said. "We can't let emotions take charge of us in business, we must always deal from intelligence; but then I've told you that all of your life. Sorry to keep repeating myself."

"That's all right, and I must admit I'm relieved you're taking this so well, Grandma. He'd never intentionally do anything to
hurt or upset you."

Brushing this remark aside, considering it unimportant, Emma said, "I want you to relax, Paula. This is not really your problem. Anyway, we do have everything under control. Actually, when I was talking to Winston after Jim had left, it occurred to me—and rather forcefully—that things are not going to be much different at Consolidated. Winston was sitting there, grousing away, going on and on ad inftnitum about being overworked, listing his present duties, demanding to know how I expected him to 'cope with everything. And as he talked his head off, I began to realize that he's actually been carrying the administrative and business load at Consolidated for-the longest time. He's been functioning as managing director without knowing it. I told him so, told him he was now getting the title to go with his tremendous responsibilities, plus a large raise in salary. You know Winston lias a great sense of humor, and he began to laugh. He said, 'Damn it, Aunt Emma, we both think we're so smart, so why haven't we realized before today how brilliant I am.' So, darling, you don't have to be concerned about me, Consolidated, or Winston either."

"I'm glad to hear that, Grandy. Look, can I ask you something? It's about the shares in Consolidated. Why are you changing your will and leaving your interest to the twins?"

"What a funny question. I thought I'd made it clear, thought that you'd understood me. Surely it's obvious—I'm leaving my shares in the newspaper company to the twins because they are your children, Paula. What other reason could there be?" Emma murmured, sounding extremely perplexed.

"None—I just wondered, that's all," Paula answered. "However, it struck me the other day that your decision might have something to do with Jim. You know, because he's a Fairley. I mean, if his grandfather had hung on to the Gazette, it would have been his today, wouldn't it?"

Emma burst into peals of laughter. "I very much doubt that," she gasped. Immediately recovering herself, she said, "Edwin Fairley would have lost the paper eventually, as I've told you before. Besides, the Fairleys owned only the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, none of the other papers in the Consolidated chain. You know I acquired those myself and with the help of my brothers." Her incredulous laughter reverberated down the wire again. "You can't possibly think that I feel guilty about the Fairleys," she spluttered,' obviously highly entertained by this idea.

"Of course I don't," Paula exclaimed heatedly, wishing she had never brought the subject up, realizing that she had been right and Jim wrong all along.

"I should hope not, my darling girl," Emma said, stifling her merriment. "I've always admitted that I gave the Fairleys a few nudges and very sharp ones at that, as they waltzed down the path to folly which they had chosen for themselves. But I can assure you that I never once lost a wink of sleep about any of my actions. I was delighted 1 was able to turn the tables on them, come out the big winner. So don't think for one minute that I'm troubled by any guilty feelings about a lot of dead Fairleys or Jim for that matter. And if he has suggested such a thing to you, you can tell him from me that he's wrong, quite wrong."

"Oh no, he didn't bring it up," Paula lied smoothly, knowing such an admission would annoy her grandmother. "It was merely a thought that flitted through my active brain."

Emma chuckled under her breath at Paula's hurried response, uncertain of its veracity. She said, "I hope you feel better now that we've cleared the air about Jim's resignation."

"Yes, Gran, you always help me to get everything in its right perspective."

Chapter Nineteen

Ten days later Emma could not conceive how she had managed to do all that she had since she had been in London. But she had worked miracles, accomplished more in that brief span of time than in the last six months. Or so it seemed to her this afternoon as she glanced at her checklist on the yellow legal pad.

She had reviewed her various business enterprises to be certain that everything was in perfect order and to reassure herself that there would be no snags during her long absence. She had met with her solicitors several times and with her banker Henry Rossiter; she and Henry had even been able to spend a couple of pleasant social evenings tgether. There had been long sessions with Winston and Alexander respectively; she had conferred with Sarah, all the designs for the 1970 Spring Collection of Ludy Hamilton clothes, and had gone over the new advertising campaign with her. And as she had worked late at the store, rushed hither and yon, switching mental gears as she went from one meeting to the next, she had found time to pull together that all-important wardrobe for her round-the-world trip with Blackie.

Emma felt settled in her mind about everything—except Jonathan. He was her enemy. She did not know the reason why; nor could she prove it. Nonetheless Emma was filled with the growing conviction that he was the one grandchild she could not trust.

Opening the folder on her desk, her shrewd eyes scanned the report from private investigators she had engaged to check on Jonathan's activities in his business and personal life. They had turned up nothing untoward, but this did not convince her that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. The firm of Graves and Saunderson would have to dig deeper, look farther afield. She was positive there was something— somewhere.

All her life Emma Harte had been able to see through everyone, had the gift of second-guessing her family and friends and adversaries alike. It was almost as if she had a demon telling her things. She also possessed that highly sensitive built-in antenna which born survivors are usually blessed with, a sort of sixth sense that enabled her to pick up vibrations—both good and bad, but especially bad. And then of course there was her gut instinct which she had come to trust, to rely on without questioning it, knowing it would never mislead her. For some time now, all of her faculties of acute perception had combined to alert her to trouble brewing, yet so far she had not put her hand on anything concrete. Still it was there, as if hovering in the dark and just beyond her reach.

Her gaze now settled on the few brief paragraphs about Sebastian Cross. They were good friends, he and Jonathan, real intimates in fact, but that was the extent of it. When she had first learned of their close relationship, which dated back to their school days at Eton, she had wondered whether or not there was a homosexual involvement here, but apparently not—quite to the contrary, according to Mr. Graves. She closed the folder with a decisive slap. There was no point in reading it over and over again. That was a waste of time. Besides, she had gone through it with a small-tooth comb already, searching for one single clue, a small lead, and had come up empty-handed. Emma slipped the folder in the desk and locked the drawer, not wanting to dwell any longer on the possibility of treachery.

A dismal feeling trickled through her. It had been painful and sad for her to resort to these awful and chilling measures —to put detectives on one of her own kin. But she had not known what else to do. And she had only ever taken such a dreadful step—spied on someone—once in her life before; and then, like now, it had been repugnant, had gone against her nature. Some forty years ago she had seen fit to have the activities of her second husband monitored ... to protect herself and her children. She was suddenly struck by the bitter irony of the present situation. Her second husband, Arthur Ainsley, had been Jonathan's grandfather.

Sitting back in the chair, Emma wrestled with another pressing problem—whether or not to discuss her suspicions about Jonathan with Alexander and Paula. Maybe it would be wisest to confide in them. What if something happened to her when she was abroad? What if she fell sick? Or dropped dead? She did not think there was much chance of either. She was in good health, arid she felt strong and vital, and certainly she was more energetic than ever. On the other hand she would be eighty years old in a couple of days. Perhaps, to be on the safe side, she ought to tell them. They were her chief heirs. Her empire would be under their control one day in the future ...

There was a knock on the door, and as she said, "Come in," Gaye Sloane's face appeared around it. "Do you need anything else, Mrs. Harte?" her private secretary asked.

Emma shook her head. "No, Gaye thanks very much. I'm waiting for Paula. We're going out to dinner. But there's no need for you to hang around. You might as well get off."

'Thanks, Mrs. Harte, I will. See you tomorrow, and good night."

"Good night, Gaye dear."

Ten minutes later Paula walked in, arid Emma looked up from the papers on her desk, her .face softening, and then instantly her eyes narrowed. "Paula, you look awfully tired!" she exclaimed, her worry resounding audibly. "You've got dark shadows, and you're very pale. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes," Paula reassured her and gave her a small rueful smile as she flopped down into the chair opposite the desk. "It's been one of those beastly days. Interminable problems with the French Week planned for July." '

"What kind of problems?" Emma asked, straightening up and then leaning over the desk, resting her chin in her hands.

"People problems mostly. You know—temperaments, ruffled feathers, noses out of joint. But I've managed to get things moving smoothly again. I really miss Emily, though, Grandy. She was always so good at pulling our special events together,
and she was certainly a soothing influence on everybody."

"That's part of Emily's talent, I've always thought. I know she used to make the store managers tremble in their boots, but she usually had them eating out of her hand in the long run, charming them all the way. Perhaps you ought to consider getting an assistant—someone to replace Emily." Emma's brows lifted. "Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know—" Paula shrugged. "I think I can cope; anyway, let's not worry about that now. The French Week is . finally under control, and I 'don't foresee any more major difficulties cropping up. God forbid! In the meantime did you get a chance to look at the boutique plans? And did you speak to Merry?"

"Yes, I did. This afternoon. I spent an hour poring over the plans, and then I phoned her, told her you both had my blessing. You were right, Paula, the scheme is excellent, and we should do very well with the boutiques."

"Oh, I'm so glad you agree, Grandy." Paula looked pleased as she added, "Merry worked so hard, and she deserves all the credit, not I. Incidentally, 1 mentioned our new venture to Emily yesterday. Since she's going to Hong Kong early next month, I thought she might keep her eyes open for special merchandise for the boutiques. You know, straw hats and bags, sandals, pretty shawls, summer jewelry, anything really that would be suitable for holiday arid resort wear."

Emma nodded her approval. "Very good thought, and Emily does have a penchant for spotting fashionable goods." She paused, placed a pile of papers in a blue folder, then glanced up, gave her granddaughter a careful look. "Did Emily tell you anything special? I mean, confide anything in you?"

Paula began to laugh. "I suppose you're referring to her new boyfriend. I must admit, she's being awfully cagey with me, and that's not like Emily. We've always shared our secrets, as you well know. However, she hasn't shared a thing about her new love, other than to drop hints that he's gorgeous and special. She calls him her mysterious lover, no, secret lover. Mind you, I'm sure he's not actually her lover," Paula suddenly thought to add, being protective of Emily, .not wanting her grandmother to get the wrong impression about the younger girl's morals. "You know how she tends to exaggerate."

Emma bit back a smile, filling with understanding. "You don't have to defend Emily to me, Paula dear. I know she's
not promiscuous she hasn't followed in her mother's footsteps, that's one thing I'm absolutely certain of. However,
he is her lover."

Paula, very startled, said, "How do you know that?"

"Why, I got it from the horse's mouth," Emma announced, mischief sparking her tired eyes with sudden life. She sat hack and grinned at Paula.

"You're looking like the cat that's swallowed the canary, Grandy," Paula laughed. "Which horse?"

"Emily. She told me all about him herself. And the so-called secret lover is no longer a secret, neither is he very mysterious." Emma's mouth twitched with amusement as she watched Paula, noted the surprised expression settling on her face.

"Oh," was all Paula could manage.

Emma's light laugh rang out. "Emily came to see me the night before last, and she was rather blunt—in her usual fashion. She said, 'Gran, I'm terribly in love, and it's very serious. I'm sleeping with him, but I don't want you to worry. I won't get pregnant. I'm taking birth control pills.' That didn't surprise me, after all she was always a rather practical girl . . . Emily does have her head screwed on the right way, like you. In fact, Elizabeth could take a few'lessons from the two of you. Well, I was taken aback—I don't mind admitting that—but not shocked, though I suspect Emily had anticipated that I would be. I wonder occasionally if that girl thinks I'm the Virgin Mary. Anyway, she was very honest, endearingly so." Emma paused, then smiled her very special smile that filled her face with radiance. "Our little Emily has stars in her eyes right now, darling. She's genuinely in love. Very much so."

"But who is he?" Paula pressed. "You said he's not mysterious, so it must be somebody I know."

"Oh yes, it is." Emma chuckled, and her eyes twinkled brightly. She was suddenly enjoying herself, enjoying teasing Paula, glad to turn away from the unpleasantness surrounding Jonathan, which she found so appalling.

"Come on, don't be so mean," Paula admonished, smiling herself, picking up on her" grandmother's gaiety which was infectious. "Tell me his name, for heaven's sake! I'm dying to know."

"Winston."

"Winston," Paula gasped, and her violet eyes widened. "I don't believe it!"

"Oh, but you must, because it's absolutely true. Don't look so shocked, darling. Winston's very eligible, and let's face it,
he has lots of charm, a lot going for him. He's also rather good-looking. He's a lot like me, you know."

Paula hooted with laughter, tickled by this small show of personal vanity on her grandmother's part. She said, "Yes, Grandma,
I have noticed the resemblance from time to time." She then continued, "The only reason I'm thunderstruck is because this news is so unexpected. And rather startling—I mean, Winston and Emily . . . goodness me, when did they become romantically entangled? When did all this start?" Paula's black brows drew together in a sudden frown. "Oh dear, what about nice Allison Ridley?"

"Yes, nice Allison indeed. That part is sad—I always rather liked that young woman. But I'm afraid it's off with her. Winston spoke to me yesterday about Allison, explained that he went, to see her, told her as kindly and as gently as possible that it's over between them. As to the first part of your question, I believe Emily and Winston realized the depth of their feelings for each other on the day of the christening. Winston asked me if I minded about his involvement with Emily, and I told him I didn't, that I was delighted." Emma once again leaned across the desk, the expression of deeply felt happiness flashing on her face. She confided, "I had a business meeting with Winston this morning, and after we'd finished, he brought out the ring he's bought for Emily. It's an emerald." Emma paused, then announced, "Winston asked my permission to marry Emily. I gave it, and they're going to announce their engagement this week, before I leave for New York."

"Oh, Gran, this is going a bit fast, isn't it?" Paula asked softly, with a hint of concern, staring at Emma.

"I wouldn't say that, dear," Emma remarked. "They're hardly strangers, Paula. They grew up together, and I should think they know each other pretty well by now. They won't have any unpleasant surprises about each other after they're married. Of course, the wedding can't take place until next summer, what with my trip to Australia and their traveling. But frankly, I'm relieved to know Emily has someone to look after her ... I won't be around forever, you know. Yes, I find it most satisfying that those two are settling down together, most satisfying indeed. It gives me a lovely warm feeling here." She patted her chest, continuing to smile.

"If you're happy and Emily is happy, then I am too," Paula said. "And come to think of it, she and Winston were extremely close when they were little . . . they're admirably suited. Shouldn't I call her, Gran, to congratulate her?" Paula half rose, made to reach for the telephone on Emma's desk.

Emma said, "I don't think you'll find her at Belgrave Square. She was going to the theater with Winston, and she's probably left the flat by now." Glancing at her watch, Emma nodded. "Yes, it's already turned seven. You'll have to ring her late tonight. In the meantime I really think I've got to get out of this place; I've been here since eight this morning. I've had it—and you look as if you have too." Emma stood up, frowning at Paula as she did. "Are you sure you're quite well?"

Paula summoned a smile. "Never better, Gran," she fibbed, not wanting to worry her grandmother.

Privately Emma thought that Paula looked completely exhausted, worn down. She had never seen the girl like this, and it concerned her. But she made no further comment, and turning away she picked up her handbag. Her mouth tightened imperceptibly. She had a sneaking suspicion that for all his easy grace and lighthearted charm and boyish manner, Jim Fairley was a difficult man. But she would not pry; nor would she try to live her granddaughter's life for her.

As they left the office, Emma said, "I've booked a table at Cunningham's—I hope you fancy fish."

"Yes, and I'm not very hungry anyway, Gran."

Later, over dinner at the Mayfair oyster bar and fish restaurant, Paula's appearance underwent a change, one which pleased Emma. Her alabaster complexion took on a soft shell-pink cast, and her eyes lost their haunted expression as she visibly relaxed. By the time coffee was served, Paula seemed so much more like her normal self that Emma made a decision: She would take Paula into her confidence. Before they left Cunningham's this evening, she would make brief mention of her suspicions about Jonathan, but casually so and in passing. She felt it was necessary to warn Paula; on the other hand she did not wish to alarm her unduly. And tomorrow, when she had dinner with Alexander, she would apprise him of the situation. In one sense it was more important that he was alerted, put on his guard, since Jonathan Ainsley worked for Harte Enterprises.

It was the thirtieth of April, and today she was eighty years old.

She awakened early, as was usual, and as she lay in her bed, shaking off the residue of sleep, she thought: Today is a special day, isn't it? And then instantly she remembered why this day was different from others. It was her birthday.

Emma had an aversion to lying in bed once she was awake, and she pushed herself up and brought her feet to the floor, half smiling to herself as she padded across the carpet to the windows. She had made it. She had never imagined she would live so long. Why, she was eleven years older than this century. In 1889, in that small cottage in Top Fold in Fairley village, her mother Elizabeth Harte had brought her into the world.

Drawing the draperies, she peered out. Her smile widened. It was a gorgeous day, full of sunshine and a startling brilliance. The sky was a crystalline blue and cloudless, and the trees below her in Belgrave Square were full blown and brightly green, their heavily laden branches undulating with shimmering light under the breeze. She had been born on such a day as this, a balmy spring day, her mother had once told her, a day that was unusually warm for this time of year, especially in the cool northern climes of Yorkshire.

Emma stretched. She felt alert and refreshed after a good night's rest, and as vigorous as she had ever been. Full of piss and vinegar, she thought, and immediately an image of her brother Winston flashed into her mind. That had been his favorite expression to describe her, when she had been revved up and bubbling over with enthusiasm, energy, and drive. She wished he were still alive, and her younger brother Frank, too. Sudden sadness streamed through her, but it was fleeting. Today was not a day for feeling sorry for herself, for missing those whom she had so dearly loved and who had departed this world. Today was a day for positive thoughts. A day for celebration. A day for looking to the future, concentrating on the younger generation . . . her grandchildren.

If all of her children except Daisy were lost to her, at least she had the immense satisfaction of knowing that their offspring would carry her bright banner forward, continue the great dynasty she had created, preserve her mighty business empire.

She stopped abruptly, paused in her progress across the room, and asked herself if it was a ferocious personal vanity that had fostered the dynastic impulse in her. A desire for immortality perhaps? She was not certain. But she did comprehend one thing—to produce a dynasty such as she had done, it was absolutely necessary to view ambition on the grandest of scales, to imbue it in others.

Emma laughed out loud. It was just conceivable that she had always envisioned herself as being larger than life, different, and so truly indomitable that she was not mortal at all. Egotism, she thought, and once more her rippling laughter filled the silent bedroom. Her enemies had frequently labeled her the total and supreme egotist. But why not? It was the truth, indeed it was. And without her enormous ego, surely she would never have done the things she had done, accomplished all that she had. That ego, that belief in herself, had given her courage and self-confidence, had propelled her forward and upward, right to the top. To the glittering pinnacle of success.

Well, she didn't have time to waste this morning, contemplating her motives, analyzing the internal forces that had driven her all the days of her life. She had done what she felt had to be done, and very simply that was that. She walked purposefully into the bathroom to prepare herself for the day facing her, shoving to one side these thoughts, deeming them unimportant.

An hour later, after she had bathed, dressed, and breakfasted, Emma hurried downstairs to the second floor of her maisonette. She looked fresh and vitally alive, dressed in a crisply tailored light-wool dress in a shade of delphinium blue. She wore splendid jewelry with it—sapphire earrings and a matching brooch pinned onto one shoulder, a double strand of pearls, Paul's wedding ring, and Blackie's large diamond. Not one hair of her immaculate, gleaming silver head was out of place, her makeup was perfect, and the bounce in her step belied her great age.

Emma still lived in Belgrave Square, in the elegant, beautifully appointed mansion which Paul McGill had purchased for them in the late summer of 1925, soon after the birth of their daughter Daisy. At the time, catering to Emma's fear of vicious gossip, her reluctance to flaunt their relationship, and her overwhelming need to be discreet and circumspect, he had had the house remodeled into two flats. And he had spared no expense in the process. The noted architect he had engaged had designed small bachelor quarters on the ground floor for Paul; the three floors which soared above were transformed into the luxurious triplex flat for Emma, Daisy, the nanny, and the rest of the staff. To the outside observer, the bachelor apartment and the large airy flat spanning three floors were entirely separate, were two distinct, self-contained dwellings, each having its own entrance. However, the two were ingeniously linked by a private interior elevator, which ran between the small hall in Paul's bachelor quarters to the larger and more elegant foyer in Emma's flat on the next floor. Because of this lift, the dwellings operated efficiently as one house.

During the war years, immediately following Paul's crippling accident and tragic suicide in Australia in 1939, Emma ad closed up his bachelor flat. Unable to enter it without breaking down with uncontrollable grief and searing despair, she had turned her back on these rooms, ignoring them except for having them regularly cleaned. In 1948, when she was finally able to confront his possessions, she had had some of the rooms modernized and redecorated. Since then, she had utilized the smaller downstairs flat as guest quarters for visiting friends or her grandchildren.

Parker, her butler, was busy sorting the morning mail when Emma walked into her study. This was a pleasant, airy room of medium size, comfortably furnished with country antiques.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Harte," said Parker, looking up and smiling. "Quite a heavy post this morning, madam."

"Oh my goodness, I see what you mean!" Emma exclaimed, The butler had stacked a staggering amount of mail on the chintz-covered sofa and was methodically opening envelopes with a paper knife, removing the birthday cards, and throwing the envelopes into the wastepaper basket.

Emma joined him in this task, but soon she had to keep breaking off to answer the phone, and then, not long after-

ward, the door bell began ringing as flowers and gifts arrived in a steady and continuing stream. Parker and Mrs. Ramsey, the housekeeper, had their hands full, and Emma was left alone to cope with the mail.

At about eleven-thirty, when the activity was at its height, Daisy McGill Amory walked in, unexpected and unannounced.

Emma's youngest daughter would be forty-four in May, but she did not look her age. She had a slender figure, softly curling black hair that framed her tranquil, unlined face, and luminous blue eyes that mirrored her lovely disposition and gentle nature. Unlike her daughter Paula, who favored a hard-edged chic and was extremely fashion-conscious, Daisy was more like Emma in her taste in clothes. She always chose soft, rather feminine outfits, arid this morning she wore a simple lilac wool suit and a matching blouse with a frilly jabot which fell down the front, gold jewelry, and black patent pumps and handbag.

"Happy happy birthday, Mother," Daisy said from the doorway, her expression loving, her eyes awash with tenderness.

Emma looked up from the pile of envelopes and broke into smiles. She was delighted to see Daisy and welcomed her calm presence. Springing up from behind the desk, Emma went to greet her with affection and warmth.

'This is from us ... David and I do hope you like it, Mummy." She laughed. "You're awfully hard to buy for, you know^ You do have everything." She thrust a package at Emma.

"Thank you, Daisy, and since you have the best taste in the world, I'm sure it's going to be something quite lovely."

Sinking onto the sofa, Emma began to unwrap Daisy's gift. "All this fuss! And at my age!"

Daisy knew that her mother was enjoying every minute despite her protestations. She joined her on the sofa and said, "But Mummy, that's just the point. This is an important day . . . you must sit back, relax, and savor every minute of it."

"Perhaps you're right. But it certainly looks as if I'll never get to the store this morning."

Daisy stared at her, her bright blue eyes aghast. "You can't go to work this morning, darling, it—"

"Why ever not?" Emma interrupted. "I always go to work."

"Not today you're not! It wouldn't be appropriate." Daisy shook her head vigorously. "Besides," she paused, glanced at
her watch, and went on, "In a short while I'm going to take you off to lunch."

"But I—"

"No buts, my darling Mummy," Daisy said, her tone amused yet firm. "I'm not your daughter, and Paul McGill's, for nothing. I can be just as tough as he was and as you are, .when I want to be. And this is one of those days when I'm . putting my foot down. Hard. We haven't had lunch together for the longest time, and in a few days you'll be leaving with Uncle Blackie—and you'll be gone for months, from what I hear. Please don't disappoint me; I've been so looking forward to it, and I've already reserved a table at the Mirabelle."

Emma smiled at Daisy, who was her favorite, her best-loved child. She had always found it hard to refuse her anything. "All right," she said, relenting. "We'll have lunch together, and then I'll go to the store this afternoon. Oh, Daisy, this is lovely!" Emma now exclaimed, staring at the solid gold, handmade evening bag' she held in her hands. "Why, darling, it's simply beautiful." Her pleasure was apparent as she turned the bag around, opened it, looked inside, closed it. After examining it for a few seconds longer, she returned it to its protective black leather case, leaned over, and kissed her daughter. "Thank you, Daisy, this is stunning. And perfect for my trip, since it'll go with all my evening clothes."

Daisy nodded, pleased and relieved that the gift was a success. "That's what David and I thought, and we really racked our brains to come up with an unusual present. Are you sure you like the style? If you don't, Asprey's will be happy to send a salesperson over with two or three others for you to look at."

"No, no, I don't want to see anything else. I like this one," Emma assured her. "Actually, I shall carry it tonight."

The phone rang. "Shall I get that for you, Mummy?"

"Would you, darling, please?"

Daisy took the phone, answered crisply. There was a brief exchange of pleasantries and after a moment, Daisy said, "I'll see if she can come to the phone. It's a little hectic here this morning. Just a minute, please." Depressing the hold button. Daisy glanced at her mother. "It's Elizabeth. She's back in London. Do you want to speak to her? I think perhaps you should."

"Of course I'll speak to her." Emma crossed to the desk. If she was surprised, she did not show it and said steadily, "Hello, Elizabeth." Sitting down, she leaned back in the chair and cradled the receiver on her shoulder, toying with the pen in the onyx inkstand.

"Thank you," she responded shortly, "yes, it is a grand age, but I don't feel eighty. More like fifty-eight! And I'm as fit as a fiddle." There was another pause. Emma focused her eyes on the wall opposite. They narrowed slightly, and suddenly she cut in peremptorily, "1 think Winston was simply being courteous when he asked my permission. It wasn't really necessary. I don't think I have to remind you that Emily is of age. She can do anything she wants. And no, I didn't speak to Tony. I thought it was up to Emily to break the news to her father."

Emma fell silent as her middle daughter talked incessantly at the other end of the phone. She looked across at Daisy, and made a face, rolled her eyes heavenward. Her patience began to dwindle, and she interrupted again. "I thought you phoned to wish me a happy birthday, Elizabeth, not to complain about Emily's engagement."

An ironic smile flitted across Emma's face as she listened to Elizabeth's protests that she was not complaining.

"I'm glad to hear you say so," Emma said into the receiver, "because that would be a waste of breath. Now, how was your trip to Haiti? And how's your new boyfriend—Marc Deboyne?"

Elizabeth gurgled ecstatically into Emma's ear for a few more minutes, and finally Emma brought their conversation to a close with a brisk, "Well, I'm glad you're happy, and thank you for calling and for the birthday present. I'm sure it will arrive here any minute. Goodbye, Elizabeth." She hung up. .

Daisy asked, "Is she upset about Emily and Winston?"

Emma laughed with some acerbity. "Of course not. She's just making appropriate noises because she wasn't informed first, before me. You know Elizabeth as well as I do, she's very self-involved. But it was nice of her to ring up for my birthday." Emma walked back to the couch and sat down. She gave Daisy an odd. look and half shrugged. "Edwina phoned earlier, and so did Robin and Kit ... I must say, I was very surprised to hear from my sons. I haven't heard a peep out of them since that debacle over the will last year.

Then today, they're as nice as pie and tell me they've sent me gifts too. Can you believe it?"

"Perhaps they're sorry, Mother, and regret their plotting—"

"I doubt it!" Emma exclaimed softly. "I'm far too cynical to think that either of them would have a change of heart. No, I'm sure their wives were behind the calls. June and Valerie have always been decent women. I can't imagine how they've managed to put up with my sons all these years. Kit plots, Robin schemes. Oh well—" Emma reached out now and took Daisy's hand in hers. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, darling. It's about this house . , , are you sure you don't want it?"

Daisy was startled, and she said in a surprised voice, "But you've left this house to Sarah, haven't you?"

"Yes. However, I only bequeathed it to her because you indicated that you weren't interested in owning it when we discussed the matter last year. But it should be yours or your children's. After all, your father did buy it for us."

"I know, and I've always adored this house. It holds so many special memories for'me ... of my years growing up, of Daddy and you, and the lovely times the three of us had here. It is a little big, though, and—"

Emma held up a silencing hand. "Not if you think of it as two flats rather than one house. He did that for me, as you know. I did so want to keep up appearances . . ." Emma broke off and started to laugh. "Goodness, Daisy, how times have changed. People think nothing of living together quite openly these days. Anyway, getting back to the disposition of this house, I thought you mighi want to reconsider. You have grandchildren now. Philip's bound to marry one day and in the not too distant future, I expect. He'll have children; he may even want to send them to school in England. Two self-contained flats under one unifying roof is awfully useful."

"I'm not sure what to say, Mother. Your points are well taken, though."

"Think about it. I can always change my will."

"But you've left me so much . . . more than I'll ever need. It seems greedy, accepting this house."

"That's a load of cod's wallop, Daisy. By rights it should be yours. If you decline, then I think that perhaps I'd better leave it to Paula or Philip."

"But what about Sarah?"

"She's not a McGill."

Daisy pursed her lips thoughtfully. "All right, I'll do as you say—think about it. Look here, Mother, I know a woman of your immense wealth has to have her affairs in proper order at all times, but to tell you the truth, I do hate these discussions about your will and your death. They really make my stomach chum. Your death is certainly something I can't bear to think about, never mind discuss in this offhanded way. I get very upset."

Emma looked at Daisy and said nothing. She squeezed her hand, sat back, continuing to stare at her intently.

Daisy took a deep breath, exhaled, and forced a weak smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to speak to you so harshly. However, I do especially dislike talking about such things today of all days. It's your birthday, remember."

"I understand." There was a tiny silence, and eventually Emma said in the quietest voice, "I have been a good mother to you, haven't I, Daisy darling?"

"How could you ever think otherwise!" Daisy cried, her face ringed with concern. Her large and brilliant eyes of the deepest cornflower blue widened considerably, unexpectedly filled. "You've been the most wonderful mother anyone could ever have wished for, always so loving and understanding." Daisy returned Emma's steadfast gaze unblinkingly, and as she looked deeply into that wrinkled face, her heart clenched with the most profound love for this remarkable woman who had borne her. She knew that the forbidding demeanor and the permanently stern expression were only surface characteristics, camouflage for a vast reservoir of emotion and compassion. Emma Harte was a complex, many-faceted person, and contrary to what some believed, she was much more vulnerable and sensitive than most.

Daisy's gentle face underwent another change as her adoration and loyalty to her mother rose up in her. "You're so very special, Mummy." Daisy stopped, searched Emma's face, and shook her head wonderingly. "You're the most honorable and loving person I've ever known. I've been so very lucky to have you all these years. Really blessed."

Emma was deeply moved. "Thank you, Daisy, for saying those beautiful things." She looked into the distance, then murmured in a saddened voice, "I've failed miserably with your half brothers and half sisters. I couldn't bear to think that I'd also failed with you or that I'd ever let you down in any way and not given you my best and dearest love."

"You've given me everything . . . why I couldn't begin to tell you what I owe you. And I don't believe you've failed the others. Not in the slightest. Didn't my father say once that each of us is the author of our own lives? That we are responsible for what we are? For the deeds, both good and baa, that we do?"

'He did."

"Then believe it, Mother. It's true!"

"If you say so, darling."

Emma fell into momentary silence, reflecting on her daughter's words. She was proud of Daisy, of the woman she had become. For all her sweetness, her soft manners, and her intrinsic charm, Daisy had a strong, even tough inner core, and immense resilience and fortitude. Emma knew that when she chose to be, her Daisy was as immovable as a mountain and unwavering in her resoluteness. This was especially true if her convictions and principles were involved. Daisy, so young-looking, was also inordinately youthful in her attitudes. She had a gaiety, a joyousness about life that was infectious, and she was of that rare breed of women who are liked by their own sex as well as by men. In fact Emma was well aware that most people found it difficult, if not indeed impossible, to dislike Daisy. She was so full of integrity, so honorable, so beyond reproach, yet so truly human and caring that she towered above everyone. If her half brothers and half sisters were jealous of her, even resented her slightly, they were nevertheless rendered helpless under the force of her warm personality and extraordinary sincerity. It was her goodness, purity, and sense of fair play that also kept them off balance and at bay. She was the conscience of the family.

"You've got a faraway look on your face, Mother. Are you daydreaming? You seem so intense all of a sudden, what are you thinking about?" Daisy leaned closer to Emma, searching her face and touching her cheek lightly.

"Oh, nothing much." Emma shook off her introspection, gave Daisy's clothes an appraising glance. "Perhaps I ought to go and change, since we're going to the Mirabelle for lunch."

"You don t have to, darling. Don't bother struggling into something else."

"Albright, I won't. But what about tonight? Blackie tells me he's wearing a dinner jacket. You don't think he actually wants me to wear a long frock, do you? I mean, after all, we're only going to be eight."

Oh my God, Daisy thought, wait until she finds out it's closer to sixty. She wondered if her mother would be annoyed with them for giving the surprise party. Clearing her throat, praying that she sounded ofihand, Daisy remarked, "But Uncle Blackie wants this to be a festive evening, extra special. As he said to me the other day, 'How often is your mother going to be eighty?" So naturally I agreed with him that we should dress. Still, you don't have to be that grand, wearing a long frock, I mean. I've decided on a peacock-blue faille cocktail dress myself. Look, I'd wear one of those lovely chiffons of yours, if I were you."

"That's a relief. I have the green chiffon, it'll do quite nicely. Oh dear, there's the door bell again¹1 do hope it's not more flowers. This place is beginning to resemble a funeral parlor."

"Mother! What an awful analogy!"

Daisy sprang up,- moved swiftly across the floor, said over her shoulder, "Perhaps it's the gift Elizabeth sent or the ones from Kit and Robin. I'll go and ask Parker."

Before Emma had a chance to blink, Daisy returned. "It is a gift, Mother." She glanced into the foyer, nodded, then took up a position near the fireplace, standing under the portrait in oils of Paul McGill.

Emma, acute as ever, peered at her suspiciously. "What's going on? You look exactly like your father did when he had something up his sleeve." Her eyes strayed to Paul's portrait and then back to Daisy. There was no doubt whose daughter she was. Her likeness to him was more pronounced than ever today . . . the same bright blue eyes, the black hair, the cleft in the chin. "Come on, what are you hiding?"

Daisy looked expectantly at the door and beckoned. On cue Amanda and Francesca walked in, doing their level best to be sedate and grown-up. They came to a halt in the center of the floor, focused on Emma.

"Happy birthday to you, dear Grandma, happy birthday to you," they chorused, sounding enthusiastic if slightly off-key.

Sarah, Emily, and Paula had followed them into the study, stood behind their young cousins. They echoed, "Happy birthday. Grandma," gazing at her lovingly.

"Good heavens, what's all this!" Emma cried, truly taken by surprise. She gaped at her granddaughters; then, addressing the twins, askea, "And what are you two doing here? It's not half-term, is it?"

Daisy cut in, "1 took them out of school for a couple of days, Mother. They're staying with me and David. After all, it is your birthday.'

"I knew somebody was cooking up something," Emma said, giving Daisy a sharp penetrating look. "To tell you the truth, I thought you and Blackie were conniving together, Daisy. I suspected that you'd planned some sort of celebration for tonight."

Daisy managed to keep her face neutral. But before she got the opportunity to say anything, Emily came forward purposefully. She handed a beautifully wrapped package to Fran-cesca and touched Amanda's shoulder lightly. "You haven't forgotten your speech, have you?"

"Course not," Amanda hissed back indignantly, reached for Francesca's hand, and gave her twin a little tug, drew them both nearer to Emma.

Taking a deep breath, the fifteen-year-old said carefully, enunciating each word clearly, "Grandy, this gift is from all of your grandchildren—from Philip, Anthony, Alexander, Jonathan, Paula, Sarah, Emily, Francesca, and me. Each one of us has contributed to it, so that we could present you with something special on this, your eightieth birthday. We give it to you with our very dearest love always."

Amanda went to Emma, bent down, and kissed her; Francesca followed suit, then handed her the present.

"Thank you, girls," Emma said to the twins. "And your little speech was very nicely rendered, Amanda. Well done." She looked over at their sister and cousins. "My thanks to all of you."

Emma sat for a moment without moving, holding the present on her lap. She let her eyes rest on each one of her elder granddaughters who were grouped together, and she smiled at them individually, nodding to herself, thinking how pretty and charming they looked. Tears welled unexpectedly, and she blinked them back, glanced down at the package, endeavoring to conceal her emotional reaction to this unexpected family scene. To her astonishment her hands shook as she untied the purple ribbon and lifted the object from its box.

The gift was a clock in" the shape of an egg, made of the most translucent blue enamel she had ever set eyes on. A miniature cockerel, enameled and delicately worked, was mounted on top of the egg, heavily bejeweled with dia-

monds, rubies, and sapphires. Emma marveled at the design and craftsmanship, which were exquisite, and she recognized the clock for the precious work of art it truly was.

"It's by Faberge, isn't it?" she managed at last, her voice hardly audible.

"Yes," Emily said. "Actually, Gran, it's an Imperial Easter egg which Faberge' made for the Empress Marie Fedorovna of Russia. Her son, Nicholas II, the last Tsar, ordered it for her."

"How on earth did you manage to find something as rare and valuable as this?" Emma asked, awed. As an art collector of discernment, she was aware that such pieces by Faberg£ were becoming increasingly scarce.

"Paula heard about the clock through Henry Rossiter," Emily volunteered. "He had learned it was' going to be auctioned last week at Sotheby's."

"And Henry went to the auction for you?"

"No, Grandy. We all went en masse, except for the twins, who were at school, of course. Henry did come with us, though. Paula had called us, and we got together for a confab. We each agreed at once that we should try to buy the clock for you—as a collective gift from us. It was terribly exciting! We almost lost it several times, but we just kept on going, topping other bids. And suddenly we had it. We were so thrilled, Grandma!"

"And so am I, my darlings." Her eyes encompassed them all.

Parker suddenly appeared; also on cue from Daisy, bringing in a tray of glasses brimming with sparkling champagne. When each of them had a drink, they clustered around Emma, wished her a happy birthday again, and toasted her health.

Once things had calmed down, 'Emma turned to Daisy and said, "Are we really going to lunch at the Mirabelle? Or was that a ruse to prevent me from going to the store?"

Daisy grinned. "Of course we're going to lunch—all of us who are present, in fact. Anthony, Alexander, Jonathan, and David will be joining us. So you can forget about going to work today, Mother.'

Emma was about to assert herself on this point, but she recognized the look on Daisy's face. Since it forbade argument, she held her tongue.:

It was dusk.

Emma walked across the entrance foyer, so bosky and still at this hour, her step light as she entered her study.

She was dressed for the dinner party Blackie was giving at the Ritz, wearing a short dress made of layers and layers of pale and dark green chiffon, simply cut with long floating Mandarin sleeves. The magnificent McGill emeralds, blazing at her throat, on her ears, arms, and hand, looked stunning against the mingled greens of the delicate fabric, the fire, depth, and brilliance of the gems intensified by the repetition of their color.

Yes, it was a good choice, Emma decided as she passed the one mirror in the room and caught a fleeting glimpse of herself. She did not stop but continued across the floor, the only sound the swishing of her dress as she moved with her usual briskness.

When she reached the console where some of her many birthday presents were stacked, she picked up the Imperial Easter egg and carried it back to the drawing room.

Placing it on an antique occasional table near the fireplace, she stood back, admiring it again. It was undoubtedly one of the loveliest things she had ever been given, and she could not wait to show it to Blackie.

The sharp trilling of the bell made her start, and in rapid succession she heard Parker's footsteps resounding in the foyer, the front door banging, and muffled voices.

A moment later Blackie was striding into the room, splendidly attired in a superbly cut tuxedo, the wide grin on his face competing with the sparkle in his black eyes, and he was obviously buoyed up with excitement.

"Happy birthday, me darlin'," he boomed, and drawing to a standstill he swept her up into his arms. Then he released his grip, stepped away, and caught her hands in his, looked down into her face, repeating the gestures practiced on her for years.
"You look bonnier than ever tonight, Emma," he said beaming and bent to kiss her.

"Thank you, Blackie." Emma returned his smile and moved toward the sofa. "Did you tell Parker what you wanted to drink?"

"Sure and I did. My usual." He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, his large frame filling it completely. "I don't want you to think I've come empty-handed—your birthday present is outside. I'll go and get it—"

The butler's discreet knock interrupted him, and Parker came in with a tumbler of neat Irish whiskey for Blackie and a goblet of white wine for Emma.

As soon as they were alone, Blackie raised his glass. "Here's to you, mavourneen. And may we celebrate many, many more of our birthdays together."

"1 know we will," Emma laughed. "And here's to our trip, Blackie dear."

"To the trip." After only one sip, Blackie sprang up. "Don't move," he instructed, "and when I tell you to close your eyes, I want you to do just that, and no cheating, mind you."

She Sat waiting for him to come back, guessed he had enlisted Parker's help when she heard the low murmur of the butler's voice, Blackie's response, then the sound of paper being ripped.

"Close your eyes," Blackie ordered from the doorway several seconds later. "Remember what I said, no peeking, Emma!"

"I won't," she reassured him, laughter bringing a lilt to her voice. She sat perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap, and she suddenly felt like a young girl again, like the little starveling girl who had received her first real present wrapped in silver paper and tied with silver ribbon. It had been from him—had been that cheap little green glass brooch which she had cherished all of her life. She still had it tucked away in her jewel case, alongside the fine replica he had eventually had made in emeralds. And once, long ago, that bit of green glass had been her most treasured and valuable possession.

"Now!" Blackie cried.

Slowly Emma opened her eyes, and as she looked at the painting he was holding in front of her she instantly recognized the work of her great-niece, Sally Harte. Emma gasped in astonished delight, and then she filled with a swift and piercing pain 'of poignant nostalgia as haunting memories rippled through her. Her throat tightened. She focused her eyes, took in every detail, every brushstroke, and she could only gaze at the painting's evocative beauty, unable to say a word.

"Oh, Blackie," she said at last, "it's perfectly lovely . . . the moors above Fairley. My moors, where we first met."

"Look a bit closer, me darlin'."

"I don't have to, I can see it's the Top of the World." She raised her eyes and shook her head in wonderment. "What a truly meaningful gift this is, my dear old friend. The painting is extraordinary. Why, I feel as though I can reach out and pick a bunch ofth.it heather, as I used to do for my mother." She let one finger rest lightly against the canvas, barely touching it. "I can hear the tinkle of this little beck, here in the corner, and the sound of its crystal water tumbling down over the polished stones. It's so ... so real, I can even smell the scent of bilberry' and bracken and the heather. Oh, Blackie darling ..."

Emma looked up at him and smiled her incomparable smile, then swiftly brought her gaze back to the painting. "It's a real Yorkshire sky, isn't it? So full of clarity and shimmering radiance. What immense talent that girl has, and only Turner and Van Gogh have ever been able to capture the true quality of light on canvas in such a way. Yes, Sally has surpassed herself with this."

Gratification and pleasure shone on his craggy, expressive face. "I took Sally over there myself, showed her the exact spot. And she kept going back, time and time again. She wanted perfection for you, Emma, as I did, and I think she got the painting just right in the end."

"She most certainly did. Thank you, thank you so much for thinking of such an unusual present."

Blackie said softly, "I had her write this on the back. In paint. He turned the painting around, indicated the neat lettering. "You won't be able to read what it says without your glasses, so I shall tell you what I asked her to put. It says, To Emma Harte on reaching her eightieth birthday with love from her life-long friend, Blackie O'Neill.' Then there's the date underneath.'

For the second time that day, Emma was greatly moved. She could not speak, and she turned away quickly so that he would not see her misty eyes. She sat down, took a sip of her drink, composed herself, and finally murmured, "That's lovely, just lovely, darling."

After propping the painting against a console table and making sure it was in her direct line of vision, he returned to his seat and lifted his own glass. "And it is a lifetime, too, Emma. Sixty-six years to be precise." He nodded at the painting. "Aye, the Top of the World—your mother's name for Ramsden Crags. I'll never forget the day you found me lost on the moors, and we came up out of the Ghyll, and I saw the Crags for the first time."

Emma followed the direction of his eyes. Over six decades dropped away, and she saw herself as she had been at fourteen. A poor little servant girl. . . trudging across the moors at dawn in her brokendown button boots and the old patched coat Cook had given her. That coat had been a treasured item too, even though it had been small and tight and threadbare. It had hardly protected her from the rain and snow and bitter north wind.

Now she stared fully at Blackie, seeing him as he was tonight but remembering how he had looked in his rough, drab workman's clothes and his cheap cloth cap worn at such a cheeky angle, carrying his sack of tools slung over his broad shoulder. Disreputable, Cook had called the dirty old burlap bag that contained his most treasured possessions—his hammers and trowels and mortar board.

Emma said slowly, "Who would have thought that we would both live to such great ages . . . that we would acquire so much in our lifetimes . . . immense power, immeasurable wealth . . . that we would become what we are today."

Blackie gave her an odd look, then chuckled at the amazement ringing in her voice. "1 for one never doubted our rosy futures," he announced, his voice underscored by a bubbling merriment. "I told you I was going to be a toff, a real millionaire, and that you would be a grand lady. Mind you, me darlin', 111 be confessing to you now that I never suspected you'd be quite as grand as you are."

They both smiled, their wise old eyes holding, secure in their love and friendship, revelling in the knowledge that they truly understood each other as no other person alive did. So many years ... so many experiences shared welded them. The bonds between them were like steel and so strong they were unbreakable.

The silence drifted along for a while.

Eventually Blackie roused himself. "Now, mavoumeen mine, tell me about your busy day."

"One thing surprised me, Blackie. They called. The plotters. I was startled to hear from my sons and Elizabeth, I don't mind telling you. She's back in London of course. No doubt with the French boyfriend. Edwina gave me a ring this morning, and she was pleasant, believe it or not. Perhaps she's mended her ways finally. And I had two other most wonderful calls . . . they really touched me." Her eyes lit up. "Philip rang from Sydney, and your Shane from New York.

Wasn't that nice?" He nodded, smiling, and she continued, "It seems that your grandson and mine are planning birthday parties for me when we arrive in their cities, so be prepared. As for my day, well, you can see for yourself what it's brought." Emma waved her hand around, her eyes sweeping the room. "Flowers, cards, and so many gifts. And I had lunch with Daisy, David, and my grandchildren at the Mirabelle."

She proceeded to recount every detail of the luncheon party, then told him how they had whisked her away from the restaurant at three-thirty and taken her to her store in Knightsbridge. Marched by her grandchildren into her boardroom, she had been greeted by her top executives, who were awaiting her arrival at the special reception they had arranged for her.

When she had finished this somewhat breathless recital, Emma rose and picked up the Imperial Easter egg, said confidingly. "This is what my grandchildren gave me, and like your painting it is a most meaningful gift. I shall treasure them both always."

"So you had a lovely day—I'm glad. That's the way it should always be." Blackie stood up. "Come along, I think we'd better be on our way. We're meeting in Bryan's suite at the Ritz for a drop of bubbly before we go down to dinner."

Ten minutes later, when they arrived at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly, Blackie ushered Emma up the steps. He paused briefly at the reception desk, asked the young man behind it to announce his arrival to his son, Mr. Bryan O'Neill, and gave the number of the suite.

"Of course, Mr. O'Neill." The young assistant manager smiled at Emma. "Good evening, Mrs. Harte." - Emma acknowledged his greeting pleasantly, and after Blackie had expressed his thanks they proceeded through the lobby, unaware of how striking they looked and of the heads turned to watch them.

Emma remained silent as they rode up in the lift, and Blackie stole several surreptitious looks at her, wondering if she had any inkling about the party which had been planned with such secrecy. He could not hazard a guess. Her face, as always, was inscrutable. He believed Emma would not be angry, despite Daisy's prediction that her mother might easily react adversely. He knew his Emma, understood that she was like a child at times. She enjoyed surprises and gifts and special occasions, particularly when those occasions revolved around her.

That's because of the deprivations of her youth, he said to himself. In those days she had had nothing, nothing of any real value. No, that wasn't strictly true. She had had her startling looks, her brains, her stamina, her extraordinary health,- and her enormous courage. Not to mention that terrible pride of hers. Oh that pride and oh the shame she had experienced because of that pride and because she was poor. "But poverty's not a crime, even though people who're better off always try to make you feel like a criminal," she had once cried to him, her anger bringing a fierce dark gleam to her young eyes. Ah yes, he remembered everything . . . Emma had had more than her fair share of pain and sorrow and grief in her life. But she would not suffer again, nor ever be deprived again, and there would be no more pain. They were both far too old for tragedies . . . tragedies were for the young.

Finally they drew to a stop in front of the door to the suite. Blackie smiled inwardly. The phone call from reception had been the alert signal for Bryan and Daisy to keep the guests absolutely quiet. Obviously they had succeeded admirably. A pin dropping would have sounded like a gun going off in the silence permeating the corridor.

Giving Emma a final rapid glance, Blackie raised his hand and rapped. The door was opened almost at once by Daisy. "There you are, Mother, Uncle Blackie. We've been waiting for you. Do come in."

Blackie propelled Emma forward and stepped inside after her.

"Happy birthday!" fifty-eight people shrieked in unison.

"That Emma was thunderstruck was immediately evident to everyone present. She stared at the crowd made up of relatives and friends who had gathered together to celebrate her birthday, her expression startled, and she colored slightly, the blush rising from her neck to suffuse her face. Her eyes immediately swiveled to Blackie's, and she whispered, "You devill Why didn't you give me a hint, some warning at least?"

He grinned, gratified that the secret had obviously been well and truly kept. "I didn't dare. Daisy said she'd kill me. And don't start telling me you're annoyed, because I can see from your face that you're notl"

"That's true," she admitted and finally permitted herself to smile.

She swung her head, faced the packed room, and was momentarily rooted to the spot. The lingering smile slowly grew wider and wider as she noted the familiar faces smiling back at her in welcome.

Her two son's, Kit Lowther and Robin Ainsley, were there with their wives, June and Valerie; her daughters Edwina and Elizabeth flanked a distinguished-looking man who was outrageously handsome. She supposed this was the notorious Marc Deboyne—International White Trash, Emily had so succinctly labeled him. Still, he did have a rather fascinating smile and a glamorous aura. Elizabeth always went for the pretty ones, of course. Well, she was hardly the one to criticize. The men who had tenanted her life had had their fair share of good looks.

Daisy had slipped across the room, stood with her arm linked through David's,.and he in turn was positioned next to her sisters-in-law, the two old ladies Charlotte and Natalie, who were dressed to the nines and dripping with jewels. Paula and Jim hovered next to them; Winston was shepherding Emily, Amanda, and Francesca, and was apparently enjoying his role of protector."Emma's eyes automatically dropped to Emily's left hand, and she.winked at her granddaughter when she spotted the glittering emerald engagement ring.

She stared beyond them into the adjoining suite, saw^Jarah, Jonathan, Alexander, and his girlfriend Maggie Reynolds crowded together in the entrance. On their left was the entire Kallinski family, and edging up to them were Bryan, Geraldine, and Merry O'Neill. Positioned next to the latter were the rest of the Hartes. Randolph's beaming face peered out at her, just visible above the shoulders of his two daughters, Vivienne and Sally. Anthony, her grandson, smiled back at her from Sally's side.

Henry Rossiter was leaning against the fireplace" at the far end of the second suite. He looks better than ever, Emma thought, and eyed his current girlfriend, the noted model Jennifer Glenn. She was at least forty years younger. That's one way to ensure a heart attack, dear Henry, Emma thought to herself, her eyes amused. Gaye Sloane, her private secretary, graced Henry's right, and the remainder of the guests were made up of old friends as well as close business associ-

ates such as Len Harvey, who ran Genret, and his wife Monica.

Emma's initial stunned surprise had completely dissipated in the few minutes she had stood motionless surveying the gathering. Now she was again totally in command of herself, all those present, and this occasion. Looking autocratic, proud, dignified, and supremely elegant, she took a step forward and inclined her head.

"Well," she exclaimed, her strong clear voice ringing out as she broke the silence at last, "I never realized I knew so many people who were capable of keeping a secret. At least from me." Their laughter rippled around her as she glided forward into their midst, accepting their affectionate greetings and good wishes' with a graciousness that few could match.

Blackie edged over to Daisy, stood watching Emma circulating, dispensing her inimitable charm. And by the ladleful, he muttered under his breath. A huge grin suddenly illuminated his face, and his eyes crinkled with humor. He exclaimed to Daisy, "And you worried yourself to death, thinking she was going to be upset! Just look at her . . . she's in her element, handling them all with aplomb and behaving as if she's royalty."

An hour later, at eight o'clock, Blackie escorted Emma into the private dining room farther along the corridor where the birthday celebration dinner was to be held.

Bending toward her, he whispered, "Daisy didn't want anybody's feelings to be hurt, nor did she wish to be accused of favoritism, so none of your children or grandchildren will be sitting at our table."

"That was smart of her," Emma murmured, her mouth twitching with hidden laughter. Well, Daisy was the one true diplomat in the family; on the other hand she knew her sons would not exactly be clamoring to sit with her. Emma was still astonished that they had deigned to come at all. Elizabeth's presence did not surprise her. It was just conceivable that her daughter wanted to make friends again, since she always had her eye on the main chance. No doubt she thought she could ingratiate herself, probably with the hopes of extracting more money. Her other motivations would be, a desire to see her children and show off her new boyfriend. As for Edwina, she was currying favor with Anthony, who would have disapproved if his mother had declined the invitation.

Slowly she and Blackie crossed to the main table, which was flanked on either side by two other tables. All were arranged in a semicircle around the small dance floor, and at the opposite side of this square of polished parquet a band was already playing a selection of popular music.

Emma's all-encompassing glance took in everything. In the flickering candlelight emanating from the five round tables, the room resembled a charming summer garden, with masses of flowers banked on every side and small colorful bouquets decorating the tables. The latter were covered in shell-pink tablecloths and gleamed brightly with the sparkle of crystal, silver, and fine china.

Nodding with pleasure and smiling with approval, Emma turned to Blackie as they came to a standstill and said, "What a lovely setting Daisy has created . . . it's so very festive.

Blackie beamed. "Yes, she worked hard with the banqueting manager and supervised everything herself." He pulled out a chair for her but remained standing himself.

Once she was seated, Emma squinted at the place cards on either side of her and said, "I see you're on my right, Henry on my left, but who else will be joining us?"

"Charlotte and Natalie of course, Len and Monica Harvey, and Henry's girlfriend Jennifer. We've also got Mark and Ronnie Kallinski and their wives with us, which makes twelve altogether."

"Oh, I am glad some of the Kallinskis will be sitting with us. I couldn't help thinking of David tonight, wishing he were here. Although Ronnie doesn't look as much like David as Mark, he does remind me of his father. He has many of his mannerisms. Don't you agree?"

"I do indeed, me darlin'. Ah, here comes Randolph with his mother and his aunt."

Emma half turned, welcomed Charlotte and Natalie, and with his usual flourish and show of old-world gallantry, Blackie ushered Emma's sisters-in-law to their seats.

Randolph, bluff and hearty as always, squeezed Emma's shoulder and boomed, "I'm sitting at Bryan's table, over there. But I'll be back,' Aunt Emma." He winked at her. "I intend to claim at least one dance."

Laughing, Emma said, "A foxtrot, Randolph, nothing more energetic than that."

"You're on."

His mother leaned over to Emma and confided, "Emily's the best thing that has happened to that grandson of mine. I couldn't be more delighted about the engagement."

"Oh so am I, Charlotte, and that was a sweet gesture of yours, giving Emily the strand of pearls as an engagement present. I remember when Winston gave them to you."

Charlotte beamed. "Yes, when we became engaged in 1919. Now about the wedding, I do hope they'll get married in Yorkshire, Emma. Elizabeth was talking to me earlier, and she seems to think the wedding should be in London."

"Does she now," Emma said with dryness. "I wouldn't worry about it for one moment. Elizabeth's always had grand ideas, and usually they're self-serving. Under the circumstances, I think it's for Emily and Winston to decide, and they've indicated to me that they want to get married in Ripon Cathedral. I think that's a lovely idea, and then we can have the reception at the house."

The three women talked about Emily's wedding, planned for the following summer for a few minutes longer, and then Emma started to tell them about her impending trip with Blackie and the places they would visit on their journey to Australia.

Blackie continued to direct traffic, and within a few minutes the room had filled up, everyone was seated, and the waiters were gliding between the five tables, filling glasses with white wine. There was a feeling of conviviality, gaiety in the air. Laughter reverberated, the cacophony of voices rose to a crescendo, the hubbub of noise balanced by the strains of the light music playing in the background.

Emma, her mind as razor-sharp as always, her eyes everywhere, soon discerned that her family and friends were enjoying themselves wholeheartedly, appeared to be having the best of times. After the first course of smoked salmon had been served, some of the younger guests immediately took to the dance floor, and Emma watched them, filled with pride, thinking how attractive they looked ... the' girls in their pretty dresses, the young men in their smart dinner jackets. They whirled around the dance floor, their clear young faces shining with happiness, their eyes bright with hope and limitless expectations for the future, their lives ahead of them, offering so much.

Jonathan's bland and smiling face came into her line of vision as he guided young Amanda around the perimeters of the floor, and for a split second she wondered if she had been wrong about him. She clamped down on this thought, not wanting to dwell on problems tonight, and swung her eyes to his father. Robin was dancing with his half sister, Daisy, and oozing charm. Dark, exotic-looking Robin, once her favorite son, the dashing Member of Parliament, currently politically secure after a few rocky rides. Well, he was shrewd and smart when it came to his own career. He had always been the dyed-in-the-wool politician, the consummate deal maker, and, she had to admit, popular in the Labor Party, not to mention with his constituents in Leeds.

Blackie cut into her thoughts when he touched her arm lightly, pushed back his chair, and said, "Come on, Emma, you owe me the first dance."

He led her proudly onto the floor, took her in his arms, and they glided away, smoothly in step to the strains of the Cole Porter medley the band had begun to play.

Blackie was well aware that they cut quite a swath together, and towering above Emma as he did, he was conscious that they were the center of attraction, knew that all eyes were on them. He caught sight of Kit scrutinizing them, and he inclined his head, smiled, and peered around, seeking Robin. There he was, swinging Daisy across the floor, so smooth, so sleek . . . and so slippery. Blackie despised her sons for their treachery toward Emma, and now he wondered if either of them had enough sense to realize how foolish they had been, pitting themselves against this brilliant woman, trying to outsmart her. They had had as much chance as a snowball in hell. Of course she had won hands down. She always won.

Emma whispered against his chest, "Everybody's looking at us, talking about us, Blackie."

"Nothing's changed much then."

Emma simply smiled, and they finished their dance in silence.

The evening continued to progress without a hitch. Everyone ate the delicious food, partook of the excellent wines, talked, joked, laughed, and danced, with a carefreeness that surprised Emma. It seemed to her that for once there were no undercurrents. It was as if an unspoken truce had been automatically declared between the various factions, as if animosities, rivalries, hatreds, and jealousies had been temporarily buried. Tomorrow they might well be at each other's throats, but tonight they were friendly and apparently at ease with each other. Perhaps this was only on the surface, but nonetheless it pleased her to see them behaving with a decorum that befitted the occasion.

Emma, too, was enjoying herself, but as the hours sped by, she realized the evening was inducing mixed emotions in her. Memories came unbidden . . . memories that were both joyous and heartrending. Bits of her life kept rushing back to her, and even the location had a profound effect on her at one moment. The Ritz Hotel was so bound up with Paul and their early years together, for here they had snatched shreds of happiness during the First World War before he had gone back to the trenches in France. For a second or two Paul McGill dominated her mind, and she sank back into herself, looking inward, her eyes momentarily glazed as she drifted into the past. But then she heard Daisy's vivid laughter at the next table and looked up sharply as the present intruded forcefully. She shook off the wistfulness that had briefly enveloped her, sternly reminded herself that she had recently resolved to look only to the future.

Blackie, who had become conscious of her periodic lapses into silence, drew her into conversation, and had her laughing in a matter of minutes. Suddenly, he interrupted himself in the middle of a story he was recounting and exclaimed, "Brace yourself, me love, here comes Randolph to claim his dance."

"Then dance I shall," Emma said and allowed herself to be swept off by her beaming nephew. They had circled the floor once when Jonathan cut in, who in turn had to give way to Winston after only a few minutes. Anthony was the next to steal his grandmother away, and soon Alexander was tapping his cousin on the shoulder so that he could complete the waltz with her.

When the music stopped, Alexander did not release her but stood looking down at her as they lingered in the middle of the floor, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

Emma searched his face inquiringly, "What is it, Sandy? You look as if you're about to say something important."

"I am, Grandy." He bent closer and whispered.

"Of course," Emma said, smiling. She whispered something back to him as he escorted her to her table.

Sitting down, Emma turned to Blackie, fanned herself with her hand. "Phew! That was a marathon. To tell you the truth, I think I'm getting too old to be galavanting around dance floors."

"What, a spring chicken like you. Never. Anyway, you seem to be thoroughly enjoying yourself," Blackie laughed.

"I am, darling. It's a lovely party, and everyone's so Very friendly with each other." When he did not answer, she stared hard at him. "They really are, you know."

"Aye," he said at last, laconic, very noncommittal, "perhaps you're right." But Blackie was not so certain she was rignt, found her children's unexpected chumminess suspect. On the other hand, they were behaving themselves, and that was all that mattered to him. In a few days the two of them would be winging their way to New York, and when Emma was gone from their midst, her family could start murdering each other for all he cared.

Suddenly the din ceased, and everyone glanced at each other as the wall candelabra and ceiling chandelier were dimmed. There was a deafening drum roll. A waiter came forward pushing a trolley on which there reposed an enormous birthday cake topped with eighty candles flickering brightly in the muted light. The moment the waiter came to a halt in the middle of the dance floor, the band struck up the "Happy Birthday" refrain, and the majority of the guests followed Blackie's lead as he began to sing, joining in exuberantly. When the music finished, Blackie assisted Emma to her feet and walked her over to the cake, and together they blew out the candles. Emma picked up the knife and cut the first slice, and smiling and nodding to the guests, she returned with Blackie to their table.

Champagne was poured, the cake passed around by the waiters, and once each person had been served, Daisy rose and tapped her glass with a spoon. "Can I have your attention! Please!" Conversation ceased, and all eyes settled on her.

"Thank you," Daisy said, "and thank you very much for coming tonight to celebrate my mother's birthday. Blackie and I are delighted you managed to keep our secret. We knew from Mother's face when she arrived that she was truly surprised."

Daisy gave them her warmest smile and continued, "In the past few weeks Blackie and I have been approached by various members of the family, and friends, who wanted to say a few words, to pay tribute to Emma Harte this evening. It was quite a dilemma for us—knowing who to choose, and inevitably we realized that the great lady we are honoring would soon become impatient if she had to sit through a lot of speeches. Especially since she herself would be the subject of those speeches. It was Blackie who came up with the best solution, but before I announce the first speaker, I would like my mother and all of you to know that we had requests from the following."

Daisy picked up a piece of paper, glanced at it, lifted her head and focused her eyes on Emma. "All of your grandchildren wanted to propose a toast to you, Mother, to be the representative of the third generation. Robin and Elizabeth both wished to say something on behalf of us, your children. Henry, Jim, Len, and Bryan all asked to be the one to offer you the very best wishes of your many friends and business associates."

Emma inclined her head graciously, looking first to her right, then to her left, acknowledging those whom Daisy had mentioned.

Daisy proceeded, "As I told you, Blackie solved our little problem and most appropriately, in my opinion. Now I would like to introduce our first speaker—Mr. Ronald Kallinski."

Ronnie rose. He was a man of dominating presence, tall, slender, with a saturnine face and black wavy hair tinged with gray. He had inherited the eyes of his father and his grandmother Janessa Kallinski. These were of the brightest blue and seemed all the more startling because he had a weather-beaten complexion.

"Daisy, Emma, Blackie, ladies and gentlemen," he began, his generous smile revealing flashing white teeth. Ronnie had a considerable amount of charm and savoir faire, and as chairman of the board of Kallinski Industries, he was used to public speaking. "There are many of Emma's Friends and business associates present; however, I feel certain that they will not be offended if I term this evening a gathering of the clans. Three clans to be precise . . . the Hartes, the O'Neills, and the Kallinskis. Well over half a century ago three young people became bosom friends—Emma, Blackie, and David, my father. From what I've been told, this friendship apparently seemed startling, even peculiar to many people, who could not understand what a Gentile, an Irish Catholic, and a Jew could possibly have in common. But those three young people knew. They recognized their own likeness in each other, saw qualities that were common denominators. They were warm, loving, outgoing, and filled with hope. They shared ambition, drive, a determination to succeed at all costs, yet without sacrificing honor, honesty, or integrity. And they believed in charity to others. The trio was soon bound together by bonds of love and respect, and they remained loyal and devoted throughout "their lives, until my father's death a few years ago."

Ronnie shifted his stance slightly as he paused for breath. "Some of you may not know this," he remarked after a moment, "but the trio dubbed themselves the Three Musketeers, and when Blackie asked me to speak to you tonight, to pay homage to Emma, he said I would be standing in for that third musketeer who is no longer with us. My father."

After a quick sip of water, Ronnie leveled his eyes at the main table. "Emma Harte is the most remarkable of women, and her attributes are manifold. So it is hard, if not downright impossible, to know which one to single out as being extra special. However, if David Kallinski were present tonight, I know that he would choose to speak to you about the immense and extraordinary courage of Emma Harte. This quality first manifested itself to the Kallinski family in 1905 when Emma was sixteen. Let me tell you about this. One day, as she wandered in the North Street area of Leeds seeking work, she came across a group of ruffians attacking a middle-aged man. He was in need of help, since he had fallen to the ground and lay huddled near a wall trying to protect himself as they continued to stone him. Without giving a thought to her condition—Emma was pregnant at the time—this young girl on the deserted street instantly rushed to his aid. She was fearless as she drove the attackers away. After helping the man "to his feet and checking his injuries, she retrieved his scattered packages and insisted on escorting him to his home in the Leylands. The name of that man was Abraham Kallinski. He was my grandfather. As Emma guided him to the safety of his simple abode, she asked Abraham why the ruffians had been stoning him. Abraham told her: Because 1 am a Jew. The young Emma was baffled by this statement, and Abraham went on to explain to her that the Jews in Leeds were persecuted because their religion, dietary laws, and customs appeared foreign to the local people. He told her of the terrible brutalities the Jews suffered at the hands of marauding bands of hooligans who entered the Leylands, which was a ghetto, and attacked them and their homes. Emma was disgusted and outraged to hear such things. And she at once condemned these persecutors as cruel, stupid, and ignorant."

Ronnie Kallinski nodded to himself, then looked directly at Emma, his face reflecting his love and admiration for her. He said slowly, "From that day to the present, this most extraordinary woman has fought stupidity, ignorance, and every kind of iniquity, has always condemned the wicked traits she recognized in some at such a tender age. She has continued to loathe religious and ethnic prejudice—any kind of prejudice, in fact. Her courage has never diminished. It has only grown in strength. She has remained consistent in her belief in justice, truth, and fair play."

Henry Rossiter began to clap, and others followed suit, and Ronnie eventually had to call out for them to be quiet. "My father once told me that Emma, Blackie, and he had helped to create a city's greatness as they had lifted themselves out of the grinding poverty of their youth but that it was Emma most of all who had put her indelible • stamp on the city of Leeds. Indeed he spoke the truth, and her contributions to industry and her philanthropies are renowned. However, I would like to add a comment of my own, and it is this: Emma has also put her inimitable imprimatur on each one of us present . . . not only on every member of the three closely knit clans, but on her friends and business associates. We must be proud of that, for we are better people for knowing her, for being part of her circle. Emma Harte honors us with her devoted friendship, her love, and depth of understanding. And she does us the greatest honor by her presence tonight. And so in my late father's name and in the name of all the Kallinskis absent and present, I ask you to raise your glasses "to Emma Harte. A woman of outstanding courage and
indomitability who has never been defeated and who has always stood tall ... so tall she towers above all of us."

Ronnie raised his glass. "To Emma Harte."

After the toast had been repeated, Ronnie said, "And now Blackie will say a few words."

Blackie pushed himself to his feet. "Thank you, Ronnie. David could not have said it better, and your own tribute to Emma was fitting and most moving. As Daisy told you, we knew Emma would not sit still for a lot of laudatory talk. Also, since I'm aware she regards the shortest of speeches a humbug, I'm going to be brief." Blackie chuckled. "Well, as brief as I can be. Obviously on this special occasion of Emma's eightieth birthday, I do feel the need to say a few kind words about her."

As Blackie launched himself into a recital about her strength of character, her ability to conquer against all odds, and her great business achievements, Emma sat back. She was only partially listening. During Ronnie's speech, she had begun to ruminate on her early beginnings. She thought of the place she had started out from, the great distance she had traveled, and she marveled at herself, wondering how she had accomplished all that she had, and for the most part entirely by herself.

But after a short while she became aware that many pairs of eyes were on her as well as on Blackie, and she roused herself from her reflections. Her old friend was moving away from bygone eras, talking of the present. And Emma's thoughts instantly settled on her life as it was today.

Well, she thought, whatever my life has been about, my grandchildren are proof positive to me that it has been worthwhile. Quite unexpectedly, in a sudden flash, everything became clear to Emma. So clear that she was startled for a moment. And she knew what she must do tonight, what her course of action must be.

Blackie was drawing to a close. "It has been the greatest privilege of my life to be her friend. So please join in my toast to Emma, which comes from my heart." Blackie leaned forward, grasped hold of his glass.

Lifting it high, Blackie smiled down at her. "Emma, you truly are a woman of substance in the finest sense of that phrase. May you long be with us. To you, Emma."

Emma felt the heat rush to her face as the roomful of smiling friends and relatives toasted her and her throat tightened with sudden emotion.

Once everyone was seated, Blackie, who had continued to stand, said, "I give you our guest of honor, Emma Harte."

Emma rose, stepped around her chair, and pushed it under the table. She stood with her hands resting on its back, her eyes slowly roving around the room, her glance touching each of them briefly.

Finally she said, "Thank you for joining me on my birthday and for the lovely gifts and flowers you sent me today. I was very touched. I must also express my thanks to Blackie and Daisy for giving this party and for being such wonderful hosts."

She let her gaze linger on Ronnie Kallinski, her eyes very bright, glittering with moisture under the wrinkled lids. "I am so glad you and your family are here with me tonight, Ronnie. And I thank you for your eloquent words, for standing in for your father. David is sorely missed." She turned her attention to Blackie. "You said some beautiful things about me too . . . thank you, Blackie."

Then, in a crisper tone, Emma said, "As many of you know, Emily and Winston are to be married next year. However, they did want me to formally announce their engagement to you all this evening. It seems .that romance is in the air in the Harte clan. Alexander also asked me to announce his engagement to Marguerite Reynolds. So let us drink to the future happiness of these four young people."

The toast was given amidst a ripple of excited whispers, exclamations. Emma stood waiting, gripping the back of the chair more tightly than ever. Her expression was benign, but her narrowed green eyes were watchful. She knew exactly what she would say, even though she had decided to make this announcement only ten minutes before.

Paula, scrutinizing Emma, took note of the friendly expression on her face. But her grandmother did not fool her for one moment. She recognized that implacable glint in her eyes. It signaled something . . . Emma was about to drop one of her bombshells. Paula instantly tensed, wondering what this could be. She could not hazard a guess. Her eyes remained riveted
on Emma. How imperious Grandy looks at this moment, she thought, standing there so erect and proud, totally in command
of herself and this audience.

Emma moved slightly, and in the soft light emanating from the many candles the emeralds blazed more brilliantly, and there
was a shimmer, a luminosity about Emma at this moment. Power, Paula thought, my grandmother exudes immense power.

A hush had fallen over everyone. Like Paula, they stared at Emma, filled with unexpected anticipation.

Finally Emma spoke. Her voice rang out clear and strong, dominating the room. "In everybody's life there comes a time when
it is appropriate to step aside, to permit younger voices to be heard, greater visions to be perceived. Tonight is that time for me." Emma paused, letting her words sink in.

There was a collective gasp.

"/ am gain" And going willingly. It struck me tonight that I've earned the right to rest these tired old bones at last, to relax for the first time in my life; and who knows, I might even get around to having a little fun."

Her light laugh reverberated as she scanned their faces. Their shock was unconcealed. "How surprised you're looking," she remarked, almost offhandedly. "Well, perhaps I've even surprised myself. But I came to a decision during the speeches. As I sat there listening to my life being recounted, it suddenly occurred to me that now is the right time for me to retire. And to retire gracefully. Everyone knows that Blackie and I are about to leave on a trip around the world. I am happy to announce to you that I've decided to spend the rest of the days left to me on this earth with my oldest, dearest, and most trusted friend."

Half turning, Emma lifted one hand and let it rest easily on Blackie's broad shoulder. She said, in a more confiding tone, "Blackie said to me the other day, 'Grow old with me, the best is yet to be,' and you know, he might just be right."

No one moved or spoke. Each guest continued to regard her intently, understanding that this slender, silver-haired woman who wielded enormous power had something more to say to them.

Emma stepped away from her chair and walked with swiftness to one of the other tables. She came to a halt next to Alexander, who jumped up immediately. His eyes were brilliant in his white face. Recognizing that he too was reeling from shock, she touched his arm lightly as if to reassure him.

Glancing around at the expectant faces, Emma said briskly, "My grandson Alexander has just become the head of Harte Enterprises." She thrust out her hand. He took it, staring at her speechlessly. "Congratulations, Alexander." He stammered
his thanks.

Moving at a dignified pace to the table diagonally opposite, Emma was aware of the tension and the sheathed excitement permeating the air. She drew to a standstill next to Paula. Pushing back her chair, Paula was on her feet as speedily as Alexander had been.

Taking the young woman's hand in hers, Emma held on to it tightly. How icy it is, she thought absently and squeezed it, endeavoring to impart some of her own' great strength to Paula, who had begun to tremble.

Once again Emma's piercing green gaze swept the entire room. "The Harte department store chain will, as of tonight, be run by my granddaughter, Paula McGill Amory Fairley."

She pivoted to face Paula and gazed long and hard into her violet eyes. And then Emma smiled her incomparable smile that filled her face with radiance.

"I charge you to hold my dream," Emma said.

BOOK TWO

Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.

GEORGE MEREDITH

I am not made or unmade by the things which happen to me but by my reactions to them. That is all God cares about.

ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS

Chapter Twenty-two

She had been alone for two weeks and had drawn strength and a sense of renewal from her solitude.

But now on this warm and pleasant Sunday Paula suddenly experienced a little spurt of pleasure at the thought of seeing Emily. Her cousin was driving over from Pennistone Royal for tea, and she was really looking forward to her company.

After she had finished setting the wrought-iron table on the terrace, Paula hurried down the steps and onto the lawn, to check on the twins. Lorne and Tessa lay in the double pram, sleeping peacefully in the shade. They looked so contented she could not help smiling before turning away and going back to the terrace to wait for Emily.

It was one of those afternoons in the middle of September which frequently occur in Yorkshire and rival the most beautiful days of midsummer. The arc of the sky was a light periwinkle blue, clear and radiant, with a few scattered cotton-ball clouds scudding intermittently across the sun which had blazed down since the late morning.

The gardens at Long Meadow were riotous with color and the warm air was filled with the pervasive scents of the flowers and shrubs.

Paula stretched out on the garden chaise, basking in the golden light, thinking of nothing very special as she relaxed. The tranquility soothed her, was like a balm after her particularly hectic week, during which she had been on the go nonstop. They had been holding their annual Autumn Fashion Fair for five days; models had paraded through the Bird Cage at lunchtime wearing the latest ready-to-wear winter styles; every afternoon at three o'clock there had been a fashion show of designer clothes in the couture salon. Fashion aside, Harte's had had other special events during the past week, including the opening of a cooking school in the basement; daily appearances by a famous makeup artist in the cosmetics department; on Thursday evening there had been a cocktail party for the unveiling of the new art gallery in the store and the exhibition of oils and watercolors by Sally Harte. The vernissage had been a huge success and most of Sally's paintings of the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District had already been sold. Whilst coping with these in-store promotions, Paula had had to handle her normal work load and it seemed to her now that every department had needed her complete attention. Much to her dismay, two buyers had resigned on Tuesday and she had had to start interviewing replacements immediately; she had also found it necessary to dismiss the jewelry buyer for incompetence late on Friday and this had proved to be a most unpleasant scene. But continuing daily problems and constant activity of this nature were par for the course, part of the daily routine of a large and successful department store such as theirs. Still, Paula knew she had been pushing herself harder than ever since Jim had been abroad, rising at five in the morning to get to the store by six-thirty so that she could leave early on most days in order to arrive home in time to bathe the twins.

She had eaten dinner alone every night, had not done any socializing whatsoever, and, apart from Sally Harte, the only other people she had seen were her staff at the house, her business colleagues, the few friends who had attended the art gallery opening. During these two weeks of solitariness in her private life Paula had come to realize more fully how vital it was for her to have these stretches of absolute peace and rest at the end of each frantic day. Working as intensely as she did, in a job that required her total concentration, frequently left her frazzled. It was essential for her well-being to have periods entirely alone so that she could recoup her sapped strength. She had the need to think, to review her schedule, to plan ahead as she pottered around in the garden, played witn'the babies, read or simply listened to classical music in the cool greenness of the conservatory.

With a wry smile Paula had to admit that even if she had wanted to gad about, lead a gay life during Jim's absence in Canada, there was no one available to play with. Winston had flown off a week ago to join Jim in Toronto where they were attending a world conference of newspaper editors, publishers, and proprietors. But the real reason for Winston's trip was to start negotiations with a Canadian paper mill which was up for sale. He hoped to acquire it for the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company. Miranda O'Neill was in Barbados for the opening of their new hotel and the launching of the Harte boutique. Sarah was with her, acting as fashion adviser, supervising the interior displays and the dressing of the windows. Alexander was taking a holiday in the South of France with Maggie Reynolds, and they were staying at Emma's house in Cap Martin. Until last night Emily had been in Paris on a buying trip for Genret.

Jonathan was the only member of the family who was not traveling somewhere, but their paths rarely crossed. This was the chief reason Paula had been surprised when he had dropped in to see her at the store on Wednesday. Before she had even asked what he was doing in Yorkshire, he had volunteered, and rather defensively she had thought, that he was in Leeds on real estate business for Harte Enterprises. He had wasted an hour of her precious time chatting about absolutely nothing, although he had asked her, and several times during the course of their aimless conversation, when Crandy was returning from Australia. She had said she had no idea, which was the truth, and had been noncommittal about matters in general. Cautious by nature, Paula had never been overly fond of Jonathan Ainsley, always wary of him. This feeling had only intensified since Emma had alerted her to him, confided her worries about his loyalty.

After her grandmother's unexpected retirement and her departure on her world tour—almost five months ago—she and Alexander had met in London to discuss the 'situation in general. They had agreed they should continue to confer regularly
once a month, in order to review matters pertaining -to the business empires they were running, had even acknowledged
they might well need each other as a sounding board.

At their first get-together they had come to the conclusion that Emily should be told about Emma's suspicions regarding Jonathan. They had invited her to lunch the following day, and had taken her .into their confidence, had suggested that she attend their monthly brainstorming sessions. All three had concurred that they must watch Jonathan like a hawk. By mutual agreement they had also made the decision to exclude Sarah from their confabs, feeling that her sudden closeness to Jonathan was suspicious. Paula, Emily, and Alexander had thus become the self-appointed triumvirate who were resolved in their determination to run Emma's companies in" the way she wanted, whilst guarding her great legacy.

The French doors leading to the drawing room were open and dimly, in the background, Paula heard the grandfather clock in the hall striking four. She roused herself and went inside, hurrying through into the kitchen. She put the babies' bottles in a pan of water to be warmed up later, loaded the tray with tea sandwiches, scones, strawberry jam, and a cream cake, then went to the cupboard for the tea caddy. Ten minutes later, as she completed her tasks, she heard a car in the driveway and looked out the window to see Emily alighting from her battered white Jaguar.

Emily bounced into the kitchen with her usual joie de vivre, wearing a happy grin. She ran to Paula and hugged her. "Sorry
I'm late,' Emily said as they drew apart, "but that pile of old junk has been acting up all the way from Pennistone Royal. I
really think I'll have to splurge and buy myself a new car."

Paula laughed. "You're not late, and I think you're right about the Jag, it has seen better days. Anyway, welcome back, Emily.'

"It's good to be home, although I did enjoy Paris. It's still my favorite city." Emily perched on the edge of a kitchen chair as Paula hovered near the stove. "Have you heard from anybody? Grandy, to be specific?"

"Yes." Paula swung around, the kettle in her hand. "She rang me up at midnight on Thursday. She wanted to hear about the vernissage and how the opening of the art gallery went—you know that's been her pet project for the last year. She said she and Blackie were going to Coonamble with Philip for four or five days. She sends you her love."

"I'm beginning to think she'll never come back. Did Gran indicate what their plans were?"

"Yes she did, as a matter of fact. She and Blackie intend to leave Sydney in the middle of October, wend their way back to New York before returning here sometime in late November. She promised to be home in time for Christmas at Pennistone Royal."

"My God, that's a long way off! 1 can't wait to see her. It's not the same without Grandma is it?"

"No." Paula stared at Emily, scowled. "You've got a face like a wet week, Emily. Do you have problems with Genret?"

Emily shook her head. "No, no, everything's fine. I miss Gran, that's all, and even though she has retired, it's awfully reassuring to know she's in the background. And right now she seems so far away, sitting over there at the other side of the world."

"I know what you mean," Paula said slowly, having sorely missed Emma's presence herself; She dreaded to think'what it would be like, how they would manage, when her grandmother was gone from them forever. She instantly squashed this morbid and distressing thought, and forced a bright smile. "Come on, Emily, let's go out to the terrace. I thought we'd have tea in the garden, it's such a gorgeous day. But we have to feed the babies first. Nora asked to change her day off this week, and Meg is never here on Sundays, so I've been coping alone today. I've enjoyed it, actually."

Emily followed her outside to the terrace. She ran down the steps to the pram. "They're both wide awake," she called over her shoulder, and began making cooing noises to the twins, leaning into the pram and touching their downy cheeks.  "Upsy-daisy," Paula murmured, lifting Lome into her arms, "time for your bottle, little boy."

Emily scooped up Tessa and the two young women returned to sit at the table on the terrace. Half an hour later, after the children had been slowly fed, dutifully burped, and then returned to their perambulator, Paula went inside. Not long after, she came back carrying the tea tray.

As she poured, she said, "Any news from Winston?"

"Yes, he phoned me last night. He's gone up to Vancouver. He's already in negotiations with the directors of that paper mill, and he thinks he's going to make the deal. There are a few more details to iron out, but he says they'll be able to conclude everything in a matter of days. He was very optimistic, and the mill will be a wonderful acquisition for Consolidated. Anyway, he's going to stop off in New York to spend a few days with Shane. Apparently he's in Barbados for the opening of the hotel, and won't be in New York until the middle of this coming week."

"I'm glad to hear the deal is going through!" Paula exclaimed. "When I spoke to Jim a few days ago he sounded uncertain about its outcome, and said Winston was down in the dumps. Obviously he was wrong, or things have changed radically overnight." She sipped her tea and continued, "Talking of Barbados . . . Sarah flew out there ten days ago to help Merry supervise the unpacking of the Lady Hamilton clothes and get the merchandise on the racks. I expect they're all having a whale of a time—"

Emily exclaimed, "Sarah went to Barbados! Why ever was that necessary?" She banged the cup down with such an angry clatter Paula was taken aback.

She threw Emily a baffled look. "Goodness, you do sound fierce. Sarah seemed to think it was her duty to go out there. In fact, she was hell-bent on going. Since she is running our fashion division, and since the boutiques are mostly stocking Lady Hamilton beach clothes and resort wear I suppose she has a point. Besides, I couldn't very well interfere. She doesn't have to answer to me . . . only to your brother. You know Sarah, she considers herself her own boss."

"Oh well." Emily shrugged, trying to act as if Sarah was of no consequence. But her fertile brain whirled and two and two suddenly made more than four. She was convinced the only interest Sarah Lowther had in Barbados and the Harte boutique was Shane O'Neill. Sarah must have found out from Miranda that he was going to be in the Caribbean for the opening of the hotel. Sarah was probably making a fool of herself at this very moment—throwing herself at Shane.

Emily, changing the subject, said with a rueful smile, "Poor Alexander. I called him yesterday before I left Paris and found out that Mummy's descended on him with Marc Deboyne in tow. She's installed them at Grandy's villa, claims she has a right to be there and to visit with her darling daughters. Sandy says she's being a pain in the neck. Very bossy. I think Amanda and Francesca are anxious to fly home immediately. They haven't had much time for Mummy, not forages."

"Oh what a shame he's having to cope with problems on holiday—he was so looking forward to going away. Won't your little sisters have to be back here very soon anyway?"

"Yes. They're due at Harrogate College on the last day of this month. I'm glad Gran agreed to let them stay there for another term before packing them off to Switzerland. I don't think those two relish the idea of being far away from her, and—" Emily stopped, cocked her bright blond head, listening. "Isn't that the phone?"

"Yes. Ill be back in a second." Paula dashed through the drawing room into the hall to answer it, snatching at the receiver.

Before she had a chance to say a word, the caller was exclaiming, "Jim? Is that you?"

"Oh hello. Aunt Edwina," she said, surprised. "It's Paula. Jim's not here. He's in Canada on business."

"Canada. Oh my Godl"

Instantly recognizing the anxiety in the high-pitched voice, Paula asked, "Is there something wrong?"

Edwina began to babble so hysterically Paula was unable to make sense of her aunt's words. She was incoherent, obviously distraught. Paula listened for a few seconds longer, filling with increasing alarm. Finally she cut in. "Aunt Edwina, I can't understand a thing you re saying. Please speak a little more clearly, and slower.'

Paula heard Edwina sucking in her breath. There was a drawn-out moment of silence.

"It's poor Min," Edwina gasped at last. "Anthony's wife . . . she's . . . she's . . . dead. She's been found . . . drowned ..." Though she had choked on these words, Edwina managed to add, "In the lake at Clonloughlin. And . . . and . . ." Edwina was unable to continue and oegan to weep.

Paula went cold from head to toe. Innumerable questions leapt into her mind. How had she drowned? Accident? Suicide? And why had Min been at Clonloughlin in the first place when she and Anthony were estranged? Aware suddenly that her aunt's sobbing had lessened, if only a fraction, Paula said sympathetically, "I'm so sorry; so very sorry. This must be a terrible shock for you."

Edwina gasped, "It's not only Min. It's poor Anthony. Paula—the police are here. They're questioning Anthony again. Oh my poor boy! I don't know what to do! I wish I could talk to Jim. It's also a pity Mother isn't in England. She'd know how to handle this ghastly mess. Oh dear God, what am I going to do?"

Paula stiffened. Her mind worked swiftly, striving to comprehend what Edwina was intimating. "What do you mean about the police? You're not trying to tell me they think Anthony is somehow involved in Min's death are you?"

There was an awful stillness at Edwina's end. Her voice was a terrified whisper when she spoke. "Yes," she said.

Paula sat down heavily on the hall chair. She felt prickles of gooseflesh on her arms and her heartbeat accelerated against her rib cage. Horror was trickling through her but instantly this gave way to a burst of anger. "How ridiculous! Your local police force must be bonkers. Anthony under suspicion of  murd—" Paula bit off the remainder of the word, reluctant to say it. Again she exclaimed, "This is preposterous!"

"They think he ki—" Edwina faltered, for like Paula she was unable to voice the unthinkable.

Striving to take hold of herself, Paula said in her firmest manner, "Aunt Edwina, please start at the beginning and tell me everything. Grandy and Jim may not be here, but I am, and I will do everything I can to help, but you must be absolutely
honest with me so that I can make the proper decisions."

"Yes. Yes. All right." Edwina sounded slightly calmer, and although she stumbled a few times she was able to give Paula the essential details about the discovery of Min's body early that morning, the 'arrival of the police, who had been summoned by Anthony, their departure and their subsequent return two hours ago. After poking around the estate they had ensconced themselves with Anthony in the library at Clonloughlin and were still with him.

When Edwina finished, Paula said, "It sounds very cut-and-dried to me. Min obviously had an accident." She hesitated. "Look," she went on, "I think this is merely routine ... I mean, the police coming back this afternoon."

"No! No!" Edwina cried. "It isn't routine. Min's been creating problems lately. She changed her mind several weeks ago—about the divorce. She refused to go ahead with it. Other things have been happening. Dreadful things." Then Edwina added rapidly, in a voice so quiet Paula had to strain to hear, "That's why the police are here."

"You'd better tell me everything," Paula said as steadily as she could, even though her sense of dread was mounting by the second.

Edwina gulped. "Yes, I think I must. The trouble started a ' month ago, actually. Min came down here—she's been living in Waterford—and started to make a nuisance of herself, caused the most horrendous scenes. Sometimes she was really sloshed, reeling from drink. She and Anthony had fierce quarrels and there were some unfortunate scenes in front of the staff, the estate workers, and even a nasty confrontation one afternoon in the village, when she accosted Anthony. All of the rows, the violence, have inevitably caused gossip, and , Sally Harte's presence here earlier this summer hasn't done anything to help the situation. You know what people are like in a small place, Paula. Gossip is their way of life. There's been an awful lot of talk—distressing talk—about the other woman."

Paula groaned inwardly. "Let's go back for a moment. What did you mean when you referred to violence?"

"Oh, violent words mostly. Shouting and screaming on Min's part, but Anthony did become enraged last weekend when she showed up on Saturday. At dinnertime. He had guests. I was there. They had a fight, a verbal fight that is, and she hit Anthony with a golf club. He pushed her away from him, a natural reaction, I suppose. She fell, though, in the hall. Min wasn't really hurt, but she pretended she was. She was overly dramatic about it, screamed something about Anthony wanting her—"

"Yes, Aunt Edwina, go on," Paula gently encouraged as the silence lengthened.

There was a sound of harsh breathing before Edwina told Paula, with a sob, "Min shouted something about Anthony wanting her dead and buried and that she wouldn't be surprised if she was found murdered. And very soon. Several people heard her say this. I did myself."

"Oh my God!" Paula's heart sank and her apprehension spiraled into genuine fear. She did not think for a single moment that her cousin had killed his wife, but it was suddenly apparent to her why the police harbored suspicions about Anthony. Her mind momentarily floundered, then rallied, as she told herself she had to come to grips with this dilemma. But where to begin? Who to enlist?

Paula said in a strong, calm voice that belied her inner nervousness, "All the gossip, the scenes are meaningless in the long run. The police need hard evidence before they can do anything—arrest Anthony, accuse him of killing her. When did she drown? What about an alibi? Surely Anthony has one."

"They're not sure about the time of death ... at least that's what they say. I think they're doing an autopsy," Edwina went on miserably. "Alibi? No, that's the terrible part, Anthony doesn't have one."

"Where was he yesterday? Last night? Those must be the crucial hours."

"Last night," Edwina repeated as if she were confused. Then she said quickly, "Yes, yes, I see what you mean. Min arrived at Clonloughlin at about five o'clock yesterday. I saw her driving up—from my bedroom window in the Dower

House. I phoned Anthony to warn him. He was annoyed. He told me he was going to hop into his old Land-Rover and drive out to the lake—in the hopes of avoiding her."

"And he did that? Went out to the lake?" Paula asked. . "Yes. But she must have seen him driving off in that direction, or she simply second-guessed where he had gone. It was one of his favorite spots. She followed him out there, and—"

"They had a quarrel at the lake?" Paula cut in.

"Oh no. He never even spoke to her!" Edwina cried. "You see, he saw her mini in the distance—the land is flat around the far side of the lake. He simply got back into the Land-Rover and was going to return to the house the long way round. But he hadn't driven very far when the Land-Rover conked out. Anthony left it parked and started to walk home. He wanted to avoid Min . . . don't you understand?"

"Yes. And he left the Land-Rover near the lake, is that what you're saying?" Paula demanded, wondering if this was incriminating or not.

"Of course he left it there.-It wouldn't start . . ." Edwina was saying, her high-pitched voice trembling again..

"Please don't cry, Aunt Edwina," Paula pleaded. "It's essential that you control yourself. Please."

"Yes. Yes. I'll try," she sniffed.

Paqla heard her blowing her nose and then her aunt resumed, "You don't know Clonloughlin, Paula, it's vast. It took Anthony an hour to walk back. He had to go up the hill, through the wood and several fields to get to the road that cuts across the estate and leads to the village. He—"

"Road!" Paula exclaimed, seizing on this fact immediately. "Didn't he see anyone?"

"No, he didn't. At least he never mentioned that. Anyway, Anthony got back to the house around six-thirty. He phoned me, told me about the Land-Rover breaking down. Then he said he would change for dinner, see me later. I went up to the house around seven. We had drinks and ate, but Anthony was very nervous, not himself. You see, he thought Min would show up and start behaving offensively again."

"But she didn't, did she?"

"No, we were alone all evening. As I said, Anthony was out of sorts and he walked me back to the Dower House around nine-thirty, perhaps nine forty-five, then he returned to Clonloughlin."

"And who found Min's body?"

"The estate manager. He was driving past the lake very early this morning and saw the Land-Rover, also the mini. Then he found—' Edwina broke down, sobbing as if her heart would break.

Paula tried to soothe her aunt, reassure her, and said, "Please, Aunt Edwina, be brave. I'm sure everything is going to be all right." She prayed she was right.

"But I'm frightened for him," Edwina mumbled in a tear-filled tone, "truly frightened—"

"Now listen to me and please do as I tell you," Paula instructed peremptorily, taking charge. "Don't make any more phone calls, and if you receive any, hang up as quickly as

Eossible. I want you to keep this line open. I shall ring you ack very shortly. I presume you're calling from the Dower House?"

"Yes." Edwina hesitated, asked, "But what are you going to do?"

"I think I'd better get my mother over there to stay with you for the next few days. You shouldn't be alone at a time like this. I assume there's going to be an inquest. The main thing is, I don't want you to worry. Fretting won't help anyone. I know it won't be easy, but you must try. I'll ring you back within the hour."

"Th-th-th-thank you, P-P-Paula," Edwina stammered.

They said good-bye and hung up. Paula immediately lifted the phone and dialed her parents' flat in London. The line was ousy. She flung the receiver back into the cradle with impatience and leapt up, realizing she had better go and talk to Emily.

As Paula raced through the drawing room, she almost fell over an occasional table. She righted it and stumbled out onto the terrace, blinking as she came out in the bright sunlight.

Having heard the crash, Emily swung her head and grinned. "You are a clumsy clot—" She stopped, her eyes opening wide. "What's happened?" Emily asked worriedly. "You're as white as a sheet.'

Paula leaned against a chair. "We have some trouble, really serious trouble, Emily. I'm going to have to deal with it—and you'll have to help me. Please come inside. I must reach my mother. It'll save time if you listen whilst I explain everything to her."

Chapter Twenty-three

"You don't think he could have done it,' do you?"

Paula lifted her head sharply. "Of course not!" She stared at Emily, who sat opposite her on the sofa in the conservatory. Her stare intensified and she frowned, "Why, do you?"

Without hesitation, Emily exclaimed, "No. I don't think he would be capable of it." There was a pause, and Emily bit her lip. She said in a rush, "On the other hand, you said something ..."

"I did? What do you mean? When?"

"Oh, not today, Paula, months ago, when you and Alexander took me to lunch just after Gran left. You know, the day we discussed Jonathan. We also spoke about Sarah. You made an interesting remark and it's stuck in my mind ever since. You said we never really know about other people, not even those who are closest to us, and that we know very little about what goes on in people's private lives. I was struck by the essential truth in your words at the time, and, let's face it, we don't know Anthony all that well. We've never spent a lot of time with him."

"You're right. But I've got to go with my gut instinct on this, Emily. I just know he didn't have anything to do with Min's death. Admittedly, the circumstances sound peculiar, but no"—Paula shook her head vehemently—"I don't believe he killed her. I'm convinced it was an accident. Or suicide. Look here, Emily, Grandy is the shrewdest person we know, and she is brilliant at reading people, spotting character flaws. She thinks the world of Anthony and—"

"Even the nicest people can commit murder," Emily interrupted quietly. "If they're under pressure, pushed hard enough. What about crimes of passion, for instance?"

"We must presume Anthony's innocence! That is British law, after all—innocent until proven guilty." • "Please don't think I was implying that he did kill her, because I wasn't. I was just speculating, that's all. To be honest, I'm inclined to go along with you on the suicide theory. Still, I hope she didn't kill herself. Think how hard that would be on Sally and Anthony—having to live with the knowledge that Mm took her own life because of them."

"Yes, that had crossed my mind earlier. It would affect them in the worst way," Paula said, her eyes darkening with worry. She glanced at her watch. "I wish my mother would call back. I hope she's not having a problem getting a plane to Ireland."

Emily also checked her watch. "She's only had fifteen minutes, Paula. Give her a chance. In the meantime, let's go over your list again, check your plan."

"Right," Paula replied, aware positive action would help to subdue her nagging anxiety. Lifting the pad, she scanned it, said, "One: We get Mummy over to Ireland as soon as possible, so that she can hold the fort. She's already working on that, so—" Paula picked up her pen, ticked it off. "Two: My father has to put a call through to Philip at Coonamble between nine ana ten tonight, to alert Philip. God forbid Grandy reads about this trouble in the papers first. Daddy understands he must do this once Mother is on the plane." Again this item was checked off, and she went on reading aloud. "Three: Put a lid on this mess as far as the newspapers are concerned. I'll call Sam Fellowes at the Yorkshire Morning Gazette and Pete Smythe on our evening paper. Actually, I'll have to call all of the papers in our chain. I can't control the national press but I can certainly make sure those we own don't carry a single line. Four: Talk to Henry Rossiter about legal advice. We might have to send John Crawford. As the family solicitor, he could represent Anthony, if necessary. Five: Get hold of Winston, Jim, or both, to let them know what's happened." She lifted her eyes. "Maybe you can make that phone call, Emily, but not until we have everything under control. I don't want either of them flying back here. Six: Ring Edwina to reassure her, and talk to Anthony, tell him what we've done. Seven: Locate Sally Harte. You can do that as well."

"Okay." Emily peered through the door of the conservatory and out into the hall. The telephone was in her direct line of vision. "I think you should work at your desk here, and I'll use the phone in the hall. That way we can see each other, talk easily between calls."

"Good idea. Look, I had better speak to Fellowes and get that out of the way."

"Yes, and I'll start trying to find Sally. Did she tell you on Thursday where exactly she was going in the Lake District?"

"No, and I didn't think to ask, but Uncle Randolph will know. Don't mention a thing about this—not yet," Paula warned.

"Not on your life. He'd go into a flat spin." Emily jumped up. "If the other line rings while you're talking to Fellowes, I'll pick it up. It'll probably be your mother."

As Emily ran out, Paula lifted the receiver and dialed the editor's private line at the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. He answered on the second ring, and Paula quickly cut through the usual pleasantries. "Sam, I'm calling about a family matter. My cousin,
the Earl of Dunvale, has had a terrible tragedy. His wife has been drowned in the lake on his estate in Ireland."

"That is indeed tragic," Fellowes said. "I'll get one of my top writers onto the obituary immediately."

"No, no, Sam. The reason I'm calling is to let you know I don't want anything in the paper. I'm pretty sure the wire services
will be carrying something later tonight or tomorrow. In any event, I want the story killed. No obituary, either."

"But why not?" he. demanded. "If the story's on the wires, the national press will be running it. Well look ridiculous if we
don't mention—"

"Sam," Paula cut in quietly, "you should know by now that Emma Harte does not wish to read anything—anything at all—about her family in her newspapers."

"I know that," he snapped, "but surely this is different. How's it going to look if every paper in the country but ours has it?
What kind of newspaper are we, anyway? I definitely do not like suppressing news."

"Then perhaps you re working on the wrong newspaper, Sam. Because, believe you me, Emma Harte makes the rules around here, and you'd better respect them."

"I'm going to call Jim and Winston in Canada. They run the papers and it seems to me that it's their decision—about what we print and what we don't print."

"In their absence, and in the absence of my grandmother, it is my decision and mine alone. / have told you what to do. No story. No obituary."

"If you say so," he said, his anger ill-concealed.

"I do say so. Thank you, Sam, and good-bye."

Paula hung up, bristling. She pulled her address book toward her, looking up Pete Smythe's home number, since the evening paper was closed on Sundays. She hoped she would not get the same argument from Smythe. She was about to dial when Emily flew down the steps, and she swung around in the chair. "Was that my mother?"

"Yes, or rather, Uncle David. Aer Lingus has a flight out early this evening, but he doesn't think Auntie Daisy will make the airport in time. So he's arranged for your mother to be flown over by private plane. Uncle David's going to phone Edwina right now to let her know Auntie Daisy's virtually on . her way. Your mother's packing. She'll call before she leaves the flat."

"That's a relief. Did you speak to Uncle Randolph?"

"No, he was out. But Vivienne told me Sally's due back in Middleham shortly. It's been raining in the Lake District, so she packed her painting gear and is driving home. I told Vivienne to have her call here the minute she arrives."

"Was she curious?"

"Not really. I said you wanted to speak to Sally, and got off the phone quickly."

"I dread having to tell her about this—" Paula murmured, her face grim, her eyes reflecting her deep concern.

"Yes, it's going to be awful for her, but she'll have to be told. In person, I think, don't you?"

"Absolutely. Well, let's not waste, time. We'd better get on, Emily."

"What shall I do next?"

"Could you bring the babies into the house, please? You can park the pram in here for a while. I must call those other editors."

"Yes, do it, and I'll be back in a jiffy."

Paula reached Pete Smythe, editor of the Yorkshire Evening Standard, at his home in Knaresborough. She repeated the story she had told Sam Fellowes. After sympathizing with her about the accident, Pete concurred with her decision and gave her no arguments.

"I wouldn't have run anything anyway, Paula," Pete told her, "I know how Mrs. Harte feels. She'd skin me alive if a single line appeared about any of you, regardless of the circumstances.'

"Sam Fellowes was a bit difficult," Paula volunteered. "I hope I'm not going to meet any similar resistance from our other editors."

"You won't. Sam's a special case. Not the easiest person to deal with. If you want, I'll make the calls to our Doncaster, Sheffield, Bradford, and Darlington papers."

"Oh, would you, Pete? That'd be marvelous. I really appreciate your help. Thanks a lot."

The phone shrilled the moment Paula put it down. It was her mother.

"Hello, darling," Daisy said with her usual calm control. "I'm about to leave. I'm taking a cab to the airport so that your father can be here at the flat, just in case you need him. He spoke to Edwina a few minutes ago. She's relieved I'm on my way. He said she sounded less agitated. The police have left. Anthony's with her. They're waiting for your call."

"I know. I'll ring them when we hang up. Thanks for going over to Ireland, Mother. You're the only one who can handle this. Edwina does trust you, and you'll deal with everyone diplomatically, which is more than she could manage."

"Heavens, Paula, I don't mind. We are a family and we must stick together. But what an appalling situation! I can't understand the police over there ... it seems very straightforward to me. Your father agrees. Anyway, talking about it endlessly won't solve a thing. I must rush. Good-bye, dear."

"Bye, Mummy, and have a safe journey. We'll speak tomorrow."

Emily was pushing the pram down the two low steps into the conservatory when Paula glanced up from her pad. "I'm going to make a fast call to Henry, and then I'll talk to Ireland." As she dialed Henry's number, Paula quickly gave Emily details about her conversations with Pete Smythe and her mother.

It was Henry Rossiter's housekeeper who answered at his Gloucestershire house. .Paula spoke to her briefly, replaced the receiver, said to Emily, "I just missed him. He's driving back to London. Apparently he should be arriving around eight-thirty. Do you think I should call Gran's solicitors or wait to speak to Henry?"

"I'm not sure . . . What do you think Grandy.would do?" She answered herself instantly. "She'd talk to Henry first."

"That's my feeling," Paula agreed, her hand resting on the telephone. She took a deep breath, preparing herself to make

the call to Edwina at Clonloughlin. After picking up the receiver, she instantly put it back in the cradle, swung around. "Sally may be in touch any minute. You'll have to talk to her, Emily, so let's decide what you'll say."

The two young women stared at each other worriedly for the longest moment.

Finally Paula said, "It seems to me that the wisest thing would be to tell her that I have a problem, that I want to see her, talk to her, and will she please drive over immediately."

"She'H want to know what s wrong on the phone!" Emily cried, her eyes flaring. "I know I said we should tell her face to face, but now I'm wondering what explanation to give."

"You'll manage. Wriggle out of it, don't say anything concrete. You're very good at being evasive, Emily."

"I am?" Emily gave Paula a doubtful stare. "If you say so." She shrugged, then ran over to the pram, where Tessa was wailing.

Paula sprang up and followed her cousin. "They're probably both damp and need changing. Let's take them upstairs anyway, and maybe you could then start preparing their bottles."

"Nora would be off today, wouldn't she?" Emily moaned.

"It's always the way," Paula murmured, rocking her baby daughter in her arms, making soft, hushing sounds.

"Dower House Clonloughlin," a quiet male voice announced when Paula got through to Ireland fifteen minutes later.

She gave her name, asked to speak to the Earl, and a split second later Anthony was on the line.

"Paula . . . hello. Thanks for everything, for taking charge the way you have. I'm very grateful. My mother was panicked earlier, quite at her wits' end, and she fell apart when the police came back."

"I realize that, and it was nothing, really. I'm glad to help in any way I can. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Very fine," he asserted. "I'm holding up pretty well under the circumstances. This is extremely unpleasant, of course, but
 I know it's going to be all right."

"Yes," Paula said, thinking he did not sound fine. Not in the least. His voice was weary, drained. Hoping she sounded more positive than she felt, she added, "Everything will be over and done with in the next twenty-four hours. You'll see.

Try not to worry in the meantime. I'd like to know what's been happening, but first I must tell you that Emily spoke to Sally a few minutes ago. She's coming over here. She thinks J have some sort of crisis. We thought it was wiser not to tell her about this on the telephone."

"I'm relieved to hear you've contacted her, Paula. I've been worried about Sally. I didn't know where to reach her in the Lake District. When we spoke on Friday, Sally said she'd call me on Monday or Tuesday. Perhaps you would ask her to ring me, once you've explained this dreadful situation."

"Of course. What are the latest developments? I know from my mother that the police have left. . . Obviously they haven't charged you—"

"How could they!" he interrupted heatedly. "I haven't done anything wrong, Paula! I wasn't involved in Min's death—" His voice cracked and there was a pause as he struggled for control. After a moment he spoke more steadily, apologized, "Sorry for breaking down. It's been such a terrible shock. Min and I have been having bitter quarrels, and she was being impossible, but I didn't wish anything like this to happen." He lapsed into silence.

Paula heard his harsh breathing as he tried to compose himself. She said gently, "You must be strong. We'll get you through this safely, Anthony, I promise." "

Eventually he said, "You've been awfully good, Paula, awfully helpful. Well," he sighed, added wearily, "they've established the time of death. The local doctor did an examination. He thinks it was between ten-thirty and midnight."

Paula's mouth went dry. From what Edwina had! said, Anthony had taken her back to the Do%ver House around nine forty-five, then returned home. To go to bed? If so, it was most unlikely that he had an alibi for his whereabouts during those key hours. But she made no 'comment, not wanting to alarm him further. "Your mother said something about an autopsy."

"Oh yes. I hope that'll be tomorrow. The inquest and coroner's court will be on Wednesday or Thursday. Everything's so tediously slow here." There was another heavy sigh, then dropping his voice, Anthony confided, "It's that damnable Land-Rover. I'm not certain the police believe me—about its breaking down in the afternoon."

"Yes," Paula acknowledged. "But are you sure no one saw the Land-Rover out there in the late afternoon, when it really
did break down? Perhaps one of the estate workers? That would prove to the police that you're speaking the truth."

"No one has come forward, and it's very deserted in that area of the estate—miles away from the house. I doubt anyone was around. However, there has been one positive development. A bit of good news. The police have information that should exonerate me. They've been interviewing everyone here for the past few hours . . . the staff, the estate workers . . . Bridget,
my housekeeper, told them that she saw me in the house between eleven and midnight."

"Why didn't you tell me this before! Then you have an alibi!" Paula was flooded with relief.

"Yes, I do. I only hope the police believe her story."

"Why wouldn't they?" she demanded, tensing.

"Don't misunderstand me, Paula. I've no reason to think they don't believe her, but Bridget has worked at Clonloughlin all of her life. Her mother was the housekeeper here before her, and she and I—well, we sort of grew up together. I'm praying the police don't get the idea she's lying to protect me. Mind you, she's unshakable in her story."

Puzzled, Paula asked nervously, "Why didn't you mention this to the police before? If you were with her last night after your mother left, surely—"

"I wasn't with her," Anthony interjected. "Actually, I didn't even see her. Bridget suffers from migraines, and apparently she had one all last evening. She was cleaning the kitchen after dinner when the migraine became unbearable. She passed the library on her way upstairs to her room. The light was on, the door was open, and she glanced in, saw me reading. However, she didn't call out to me because of her blinding pain. She ran upstairs, found her pills, and returned to the kitchen. She made herself a pot of tea, rested in the chair for half an hour, finished her work, set the dining room table for breakfast, and just after midnight she went to bed. Again she glanced through the open library door. I was by then working on the estate books, doing the accounting, and, not wishing to disturb me, she simply went on up to bed without even saying good night. It was her day off today and she wasn't here when the police first came."

"Oh Anthony, this is the best news I've heard today!"

"I think it is. Still, she is the only person who saw me during those crucial hours. The two maids who work here had already gone home to the village—they come in daily. So . . . there's no one to corroborate her story, and it's well  known around
these parts that she's devoted to me and is extraordinarily loyal to our family. The police might—and remember I'm only
 saying might—-doubt her word, think she and I concocted the alibi,"

Paula's heart plummeted, her relief of a moment ago evaporating entirely. "Oh God, don't say that."

"I have to look at the worst, view this situation objectively," Anthony said. "On the other hand, 1 don't see how the police can dismiss her, say she's lying without being absolutely certain that she is making it up, and I know she'll stick to her guns."

Pulling herself upright in the chair, Paula said slowly, "Yes, that's true. However, when I talk to Henry Rossiter later, about getting legal advice, I'm also going to suggest we retain a criminal lavyyer."

"Hang on a minute!" Anthony -exclaimed. "That's jumping the gun, isn't it?" He sounded aghast at this idea. "1 haven't done anything wrong, I've told you that, Paula. A criminal lawyer. Christ, that's going to make me look as guilty as hell."

"Of course it isn't," Paula shot back sternly, determined to stand her ground. "And let's wait to hear what Henry has to say. I trust his judgment, as Grandy has for many years. He 'won't steer us in the wrong direction. Please, Anthony, don't make swift decisions out of hand."

"Very well, get Henry's' opinion," he agreed, although somewhat grudgingly.

After they had concluded their conversation, Paula sat at her desk in the conservatory. She ran a hand through her hair, rubbed her eyes, stretched. Then eyeing the pad in front of her on the desk, she dragged her thoughts back to her list. Three people still had to be called—Jim, Winston, Henry Rossiter. Looking at her watch she saw that it was now seven-thirty. Henry would not be available for another hour at least, and obviously Emily had not had a chance to reach Jim or Winston in Canada, since she was preparing the babies' bottles in the nursery. Paula went to join her there.'

Once they were settled comfortably, each cradling a child, Paula recounted her conversation with Anthony.

Emily listened carefully as she adjusted the feeding bottle,-glancing at Paula several times, nodding her understanding.

"That's the gist of it then . . . Bridget has given Anthony an alibi."

A silence fell between them as they concentrated on the babies. Then very quietly, but in a voice of steel, Paula said, "No grandson of Emma Harte's is going to be in the dock standing trial for murder. I promise you that."

"I hope you really do understand why we had to lie to you, Sally," Paula said gently.

"Yes. And it's just as well that you did." Sally Harte swallowed and cleared her throat nervously. Her voice shook as she added, "I don't think I could have driven over here without having an accident if Emily had told me the truth on the phone."

Paula nodded, continued to survey her cousin intently, filled with anxiousness for her.

For the last fifteen minutes, all through Paula's account of the events in Ireland, Sally had managed to cling to her self-control. Paula admired her for taking the terrible news without flinching. I ought to have known she would be brave, Paula thought. She always was stoical, even as a child. The Harte backbone, her grandmother called it. Yes, despite this extraordinary show of strength, Paula knew Sally was shattered. It showed in her cornflower-blue eyes, now so devastated, and in her lovely face, which was stark with shock.

Sally was holding herself so rigidly in the chair she looked as if she had been paralyzed by Paula's recital, and leaning forward Paula took hold of Sally's hand. She was alarmed at its deathly coldness, said, "Sally, you're frozen! Let me get you a brandy, or make you a cup of tea. You need something to warm you up."

"No, no, really. Thanks, anyway." Sally attempted to bring a smile to her face without success, and as she continued to meet Paula's worried gaze her eyes suddenly filled. "Anthony must be under the most dreadful strain," she began unsteadily and stopped. Now the tears came, spilling out of her wide blue eyes, rolling down her ashen cheeks. Still she did not stir, nor did she utter a sound.

Paula got up and went and knelt in front of Sally, encircling her cousin with her arms. "Oh, darling, it's going to be all right," Paula murmured with the utmost gentleness, full of compassion. "Don't fight the tears. It's much better to cry, really, to .get the pain out, and crying does help a bit. It's a release."

Sally clung to Paula, heaving with silent, racking sobs, and Paula stroked her black hair, gentled her, and eventually the awful quiet heaving lessened. Soon Sally straightened up, brushing her wet face with her strong painter's hands.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, her voice strangling in her throat. She strove hard to get hold of herself, blinking the tears away. "I love him so much, Paula. I can hardly stand it, knowing what he's going through . . . He's so alone over there. I'm sure Aunt Edwina is no help at all. She's probably blaming all this on me." She shook her head desperately. "Oh God!" She pressed her hands to her contorted face, which expressed her anguished thoughts. "He needs me . . ."

Paula, who had returned to her chair, stiffened at these words. She held her breath, willing herself to be silent. She knew what must be said, but she was also aware that it would be wiser and kinder to wait until Sally had calmed herself further.

Emily, hovering in the doorway of the drawing room, flashed Paula a warning look and began to move her head violently from side to side. Silently Emily mouthed, "Don't let her go over there."

Paula nodded, motioned for Emily to come into the room. This she did at once, seating herself in a nearby chair. In a half whisper, Emily said to Paula, "No luck, I'm afraid. There's no reply from Jim's room or Winston's either. I've left messages for them to call here the minute they get back to their hotels."

Although Emily had spoken softly, Sally had heard her, and at the mention of her brother's name her hands fell away from her face. She jerked her head, looked directly at Emily. "I wish Winston were here. I feel so ... helpless . . ."

"I wish he were here too," Emily replied and patted Sally's arm in her motherly way. "But you're not helpless, since you've got us. It's going to be fine, honestly it is. Paula's been

super, and she's in full control, on top of everything. Try not to worry."

"I'll do my best." Sally's eyes swiveled to Paula. "I haven't thanked you—you've been wonderful. So have you, Emily, and I'm very grateful to you both."

Discerning that Sally was a little more composed, Paula said, "There is one thing I must say to you—please don't go to Ireland to be with Anthony. I know you're sick at heart, • dreadfully concerned about him, but you really mustn't go over there. You can't do anything constructive, and, frankly, your presence would be highly inflammatory."

Sally was startled. "I've no intention of going to Clonlottghlin! I know there's been a lot of nasty gossip. Anthony told me about that weeks ago—he tells me everything. Obviously I don't want to add fuel to the fire. But, Paula, I do think I ought to go to Ireland, either to Waterford or, better still, Dublin. I'll go tomorrow. I can leave in the morning, from Manchester Airport, and be there in several hours. At least I'll be closer to him than I am here in Yorkshire—"

"No!" Paula exclaimed with unusual sharpness. "You can't go. You're staying here—even if I have to put you under lock and key!"

Sally began, "But I—"

"I'm not going to let you go to Ireland." Paula threw her cousin a stern look and her mouth settled into resolute lines.

Sally stared back at Paula defiantly, and her pellucid blue eyes filled with stubbornness. Asserting herself, she said with equal firmness, "I understand your reasoning. On the other hand, what harm is there in my being in Dublin?" When Paula remained silent, Sally went on, "It's hundreds of miles away from Clonloughlin." She stopped again, frowned. "If I'm in Dublin, Anthony will at least know I'm within easy reach, and we can be together once the inquest is over," she finished shakily, sounding less sure of herself. The trembling started anew, and Sally clenched her hands together in her lap, striving to curb this, and then her eyes unexpectedly welled. "He needs me, Paula. Don't you understand that? Understand that I have to be with him?"

Paula commanded: "Now listen to me, and listen very, very carefully. You cannot help Anthony in any way whatsoever. In fact, you could easily do him irrevocable damage by showing up in Ireland. If Anthony were suspected of murder, you could be his motive. In Grandy's absence I am in charge of this family, and you'd better understand that I'm making all the rules. Therefore, Sally, I must insist that you stay here."

Sally had shrunk back in the chair, momentarily stunned by Paula's vehemence. She had hot realized how formidable her cousin could be.

Paula and Emily were watching Sally and now they exchanged-knowing glances. It was Emily who broke the silence. She touched Sally's arm, said, "Please take Paula's advice, Sal."

Emotionally, Sally had the desire to be with Anthony because she believed he needed her during this dreadful time. Intellectually, she was beginning to accept that going to him would be the wrong move to make. Paula was right in everything she had been saying. Listen to your head, not your heart, she cautioned herself.

"I'll stay here," Sally whispered finally, leaning back in the chair, passing her hands over the aching muscles in her face.

Paula let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God for that. Are you feeling up to ringing Anthony now? He's anxious to speak to you and you'll set his mind at rest, once he knows how well you're coping."

Sally jumped up. "Yes, yes, I must talk to him at once."

"Why don't you go up to my bedroom where it's quiet— private," Paula suggested kindly.

"Thanks, I will." Sally paused at the door, swung her head. She stared at Paula. "You're the most daunting person I know," she said and disappeared down the hall. . Paula gazed after her, then looked at Emily speechlessly.

Emily said, "I'd take that as a compliment, if I were you. And I think you'd better get to the phone too—don't you want to reach Henry Rossiter? It's well past eight-thirty, you know."

Together they sat on the terrace, enjoying the gentle stillness of the gardens, cloaked now by a dark-blue sky peppered with brightly twinkling stars. It was a clear night, cloudless, with a full moon, and its silvered rim was just visible above the tops of the distant trees swaying and rustling under the soft evening breeze.

"I don't know about you, but I'm wiped out," Emily said.

breaking the long silence at last, peering across at Paula in the dusky, shadowy light.

Paula turned her face, and quite suddenly it was clearly illuminated in the bright glow emanating from the lamps in the drawing room immediately behind them. Emily noticed at once that the stern veil had been lifted, and a lovely softness dwelt there again and there was warmth in her cousin's expression.

Finally Paula answered. "Yes, I'm a bit done in too, I must admit. But at least all the important phone calls are out of the way." She lifted the goblet of white wine and took a long swallow. "This was a good idea of yours, Emily. Sitting waiting for Jim or Winston to ring us was getting awfully wearisome and frustrating."

"Yes, it was. I wonder if your father has managed to get hold of Philip yet. It must be nine-thirty by now."

Squinting at her watch, Paula nodded. "Almost.- We have to give him time to get through to Australia. He'll be in touch soon." Paula cleared her throat, continued, "I do wish Sally-had stayed longer. Do you think she was really all right when she left?"

"She was certainly calmer when she came downstairs, but awfully subdued."

"Well, that's understandable."

Emily made no response. Shifting her position in her chair, she picked up her drink, sipped it. "Did you notice anything different about Sally?" There was a moment's hesitation on Emily's part before she added, "I don't mean when she left, but in general."

"She s put on weight."

Emily's fingers tightened around her glass and, dropping her voice, she whispered, "I have a horrible feeling . . . well, I might as well say it... I think Sally's pregnant."

Paula sighed. Her worst fears had been confirmed. "That's what I was afraid you'd say, Emily. Actually, so do I."

"Oh bloody hell," Emily exploded, her voice rising, "that's all we need! I'm surprised you didn't spot her condition at the vernissage. Or did you?'